


Of Witchers, Bards, and Broken Hearts

by dhwty_writes



Series: Of Witchers, Bards, and Broken Hearts [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Canon-Typical Violence, Geralt and Ciri seek refuge in Lettenhove, Horse Girl Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Implied/Referenced Abortion, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Jaskier is slow to forgive, Jaskier | Dandelion Has ADHD, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oblivious Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Politics, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Rating May Change, Slow Burn, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:00:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 97,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25957882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dhwty_writes/pseuds/dhwty_writes
Summary: Six months have passed since Geralt and Ciri found each other. Since then, they have been on the run from... well, everyone, basically. Geralt is tired, Ciri is hungry, Roach is dead. And then they stumble across a very particular viscounty named Lettenhove. The problem? Geralt broke the Viscount’s heart on a mountain and Julian ‘Jaskier’ Alfred Pankratz, a bard, a friend, a lover, is slow to forgive.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Original Male Character(s), Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Series: Of Witchers, Bards, and Broken Hearts [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1980979
Comments: 679
Kudos: 786





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, this got a little out of hand. I saw [Spielzeugkaiser's](https://tumblr.com/%5Bbeta's_tumblr_name%5D) [art](https://spielzeugkaiser.tumblr.com/post/626622363229929472/what-is-happening-here-j-you-may-address-me) on tumblr and my mind kind of ran away with the idea. It was supposed to be a one shot. It... won't be. Have fun with the prologue, I guess?  
> See end notes for questions regarding the timeline.

The Viscount de Lettenhove had a... a reputation to say the least. He had left his home when he had been fourteen, off to Oxenfurt to study the Seven Liberal Arts, vowing never to return. That alone had been seen as _less than ideal_ by a great many of people – though their choice of words hadn’t been nearly as nice. He had redeemed himself, in a way, by graduating _summa cum laude_ four years later. He had gambled it away again by disappearing not a month later without so much as a word. And by leaving his family and subjects to figure out that the famous Jaskier was, in fact, their Julek by themselves

It still surprised him a great deal that he had gotten away with it for seven years until he had played at a Cintran banquet that had become very famous – though regrettably not by his doing. The only reason he hadn’t been declared dead in the meantime was that he had occasionally used his real name when times were especially hard, he supposed. Once he had been discovered, however, his family had managed to bully him into writing a few letters a year, at least. His vows of staying away, on the other hand? He had been even more adamant on keeping them.

No, there was only one person in this world who he would ever break them for. And that was also, coincidentally, the only person who would never ask it of him to do so.

Or so he’d thought.

Julian ‘Jaskier’ Alfred Pankratz had returned to Lettenhove not quite one and a half years ago on a beautiful spring's eve, the cherry trees in full bloom and the crops swaying in the breeze. For his family, it had been a jubilance. For Jaskier, it had felt like bitter defeat.

For the people of Lettenhove, it had been a shock. The loving, loud and ludicrous boy they had known had never returned from the Path. Instead he was a suddenly a man grown, sullen and sombre and silent who sought solace in his siters' embraces.

There had been many rumours in those first few months after he had ridden up to the gates demanding entrance about what had happened out there. They spoke of friendship and fervour, of affection and agony, of hundreds of heartbreaks and lifetimes of loyalty. Of course, none of them were true, strictly speaking. But many of the whispered guesses came so close to veracity it hurt all the same.

It had gotten better, though. There had been no other choice. He was the Honourable Master of Lettenhove and member of the Oxenfurt Academy's Faculty of Most Contemporary History whether he liked it or not and there was a war threatening them all.

This time there was no university to escape to, no witcher to follow, no destiny calling. For the first time in his life, Jaskier had run into a dead end. For the first time in his life, he could no longer run from his duty.

And now he was standing in his father's study, wearing his father's sword and looking across his father's lands as the sunset tinted them in the embers of a dying day, the most beautiful mixture of blood red light and bruise purple clouds above golden fields and emerald forests. ‘There’s a story in this,' the thought startled him. ‘Has the queen put on her ruby glasses to see the world as it had been before her lover scorned her? Has the dragon come to bathe the world in fire? Has-‘ He quickly pushed those thoughts away before they could make a home in his mind. ‘I must not.’

Before it might have been enough to inspire him for a new ballad. ‘It would have been enough for a thousand.’ Before returning. Before the war. Before... everything.

Now he could control the itch in his fingers fairly well. It was not just that his life in Lettenhove did not compare to a muse as magnificent as his travels. As magnificent as- 'No, don't think about it, it just hurts.'

It was also that for the first time in his life, Jaskier considered if his father had the right of it. What use had the arts for him now that he was- well, not old, most certainly not old, he had barely seen thirty-four years go by - 'Gods above, _already_?' What use had the arts for him now that he was _settled_? He had responsibility now. A responsibility to the land, the name, the people. To his legacy.

'I viscount's legacy shan't be telling a witcher's tales,' he could still hear his father's voice.

'Fuck you, father,' he thought. 'And stay in your grave where you belong.' He would love to continue telling a witcher's tales. The thing was, however, he couldn't anymore. Geralt had made that very clear.

'If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands.' The words still stung as much as they had on the day the witcher had first spoken them into existence.

The other thing was, Jaskier couldn't really leave Lettenhove anymore. The disappearance of an heir apparent was one thing. The disappearance of a Viscount quite another. His father, the bastard, had died, and bound him to these lands.

'My lands,' he had to remind himself again. It was still weird to think that, _his lands_. For so long Lettenhove hadn't been anything _his_. Not his residence, that had been whatever dry spot they could find. Not his own, that had been his father's. And certainly not his home, for that had been at Geralt's side. But Geralt had sent him away and he had returned so now everything was different. Oh, what would he give for the ability to reverse time.

‘That’s useless,’ he had to tell himself. ‘He’d send you away again. And again, and again, and again. Quit thinking about that which you cannot change.’

There was a timid knock on the door to _his_ study that forced him to abandon his melancholy thoughts. He did that a lot, these days. Brood, that was. It wasn't something he had ever liked to do before, but now there was scarcely anything else to occupy his mind with and- he was doing it again. "Come in," he called without turning around. He had long learned to tell the members of his household apart by the sound of their steps.

"My lord," said shy Marta with the shuffling feet, "I am sorry to disturb you..."

The viscount spared the idyllic landscape one last glance before he sighed and turned around. "You did not. What is it?"

"There, uh-" Marta looked away. "There's a witcher at the gates. He's asking to see you."

Jaskier frowned. 'A witcher?' He forced the feeling of euphoria from his mind before it could make itself comfortable. "Tell him to go away." For a moment he paused, allowing himself to wonder which one it might be. 'Do I know him?' Then again, he was not really in the mood for visits and a visit it had to be for there were no monsters in Lettenhove. "And that we are in no need of witchering."

The young servant shifted uncomfortably on her feet. "He's very persistent, my lord."

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. 'Of course, he is.' "Then be persistent, too."

"I mean, I wasn't there, I wouldn't know how persistent he is but that is what Marin told me when he came to fetch me, so-" He ground his teeth. The darting of her eyes and her incessant babbling set his nerves on edge and made him lose his own train of thought. 'Is that what I'm like?' he wondered for a moment. He was half of a mind to yell at her when she finally spoke again: "Marin also told me to tell you that, uh, the witcher claims to know your, um- your son."

Jaskier froze as an icy hand wrapped around his heart, gripping tightly. "My son?" he asked a bit confused. "What did you say was his name again?"

"He didn't give us one."

'Smart man,' he thought appreciatively. "Well, then, what does he look like?"

"Like a witcher?" she tried.

He groaned: "Marta-"

"I wasn't there, my lord!" she said defensively again. "I only got a glimpse at him, I swear it. But a witcher he was, large and scary, with two swords and his hood all up in his face. He wasn't alone, though."

"A horse?" he concluded but she shook her head.

"A boy, I think. Maybe he stole the child."

Jaskier sighed loudly and massaged his temples. "Witchers do not steal children," he said slowly. No matter how often he told them, there was nothing he could do about superstitions that had been in place for generations. "If you didn't _see_ him, was there at least anything else you _heard_?"

"Sure!" she answered. 'Melitele's tits, finally!' "It doesn't make a lot of sense, though. He told us to thank you for the invitation."

He waved his hand expectantly. Marta didn't answer. "Was that all?" he asked impatiently.

"And that he's run out of apple juice."

He frowned. "Apple juice?" he repeated incredulously. Why on earth would a witcher come to his gates to tell him he was lacking apple juice of all things- ' _Oh._ ' Of course. Jaskier ground his teeth forcefully.

"He hasn't heard then," he gritted out. Well, that was just his luck, wasn't it? Of course, it had to be the _only witcher in the whole wide world_ he definitely did _not_ want to see to come knocking on his door. And the child? It couldn't be, could it? There had been rumours but he hadn't given them any credit until now. But if they were true- "Fine," he said after a long while and straightened his back, steeling himself as if for battle. "Send him in."

Oh, and what a battle it would be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, I suppose most of you will have noticed already that I am not strictly keeping to the Netflix timeline/canon. I am currently reading the books and there are some things that I enjoy more in one of the two so I am taking a bit of a "best of both worlds approach"?  
> Here's roughly what happened (I used [this timeline](https://kirk-spock-in-the-impala.tumblr.com/post/616049802900275200/witcher-timeline-sources-cited) as reference.  
> 1229 - Jaskier is born. (Geralt is about 60 at this point)  
> 1243 - Jaskier goes to Oxenfurt (I looked it up, they start when they are roughly 14 as in real world medieval universities)  
> 1247 - Jaskier graduates summa cum laude and meets Geralt in Posada (in our world you normally needed 6 years to graduate but hey, who cares?)  
> 1252 - Pavetta's betrothal feast  
> 1257 - Geralt and Jaskier meet Yennefer  
> 1262 - The Dragon Hunt. Jaskier returns home to Lettenhove and takes up his duties. The First Nilfgaardian war starts.  
> 1263 - The Fall of Cintra. The Second Battle of Sodden. Geralt and Ciri find each other (yet to be specified how, but they are not in Sodden during the battle for plot reasons). Six months after they come to Lettenhove.
> 
> There will (probably) be no spoilers for the book canon (and what (presumably) will happen in the series going forward) as I plan to end this fic right where Blood of the Elves picks up.  
> Anyways, thanks for reading! Hop over to my [tumblr](https://dhwty-writes.tumblr.com/) or leave a comment or kudo here if you like!


	2. A Broken Witcher

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt and Ciri have been on the run for half a year. Through pure luck their path leads them to Lettenhove. The meeting with the Viscount, however, goes a lot different than they had expected.

Geralt was more tired than he'd ever been his entire life. They had been on the run for the better part of six months and no matter where they went, _someone_ followed them anyways. It wasn’t necessarily _Nilfgaard_ that was on their heels, he had realised that rather quickly. The problem was that for some reason or another more than half the Continent was looking for the lost princess he had found. In the end, it didn’t matter. She was his and his alone. His to protect, to raise, to care for. He wouldn’t just give her up now.

He wanted nothing but to get home, to get Ciri to Kaer Morhen where she would be safe, where she could grow and learn. He had contacted Yennefer about that, in the hopes that she could just portal them there, but she hadn't even responded the first few times.

Then, she had said that she couldn’t do it. That had been the end of their correspondence, with Yennefer saying she had more important things to focus on.

Then, there had been a fight. Ciri was uninjured, thankfully, but Geralt could still feel the strain days after. He guessed he should have needed stitches. But he couldn’t find it in himself to make Ciri do the gruesome work. His armour was battered and torn in many places and of all things he had lost his silver sword. Well, not lost. But it was in a fucking bad shape with shards and all. He was pretty sure the next time someone breathed too hard in its general direction it would break. Together with the rest of his gear, to be honest.

Then, Roach had died. That was alright, mostly. She had been a good horse and an old one. The end had been coming for quite some time. And she definitely hadn't been well enough to carry two people, even if one of them was a starving child and the other one a starving witcher. Still, she had probably chosen the worst time to die.

Because now they were on foot, hunted by _basically everyone_ without coin for a new horse - or even food for that matter - and without a silver sword to earn new coin. Geralt found himself thinking of Jaskier and suddenly wishing that _he_ knew how to sing. They had rarely gone hungry when they had travelled together. Then again, it probably wasn't the best idea to draw more attention than strictly necessary. On the other hand, he was, quite frankly, running out of options.

And that was exactly when it happened. He didn't know what it was - destiny? luck? Melitele herself come to save them? - and he didn't care: "Geralt!" Ciri exclaimed with big eyes, "there's a signpost! Maybe it can tell us where we should be going!"

He clasped one hand on her too-thin shoulder, guilt coursing through his veins. He hadn't had it in him to tell her that there was nowhere left to go. Instead he had said he had lost his way. He suspected that she knew the truth anyways.

But there it was. A tattered signpost with old letters, yet clear as day. _Lettenhove - 4 miles._ A tiny sliver of hope appeared before his eyes and he held onto it as best as he could. He knew that place, though he hadn't passed through it himself. Jaskier had mentioned it in one of his endless ramblings. No, not one, many actually. 'It's his home,' he remembered. Which meant that the Viscount of Lettenhove had to be his father. And maybe such a man would be willing to let a witcher and a child surprise stay, for only a week maybe. He could- he could do anything, earn a little coin or food at least and then they would be on their way again-

"Right," he said. "Let's go, it's only four miles left. If we hurry, we will be there before sundown."

He knew that it was just as likely that their various pursuers had found out about Jaskier's origins and that they would be waiting there for them, but he quickly pushed that possibility away. And if that were the case, well, it would only hasten a process that seemed already overdue.

In the end, he had been right. They arrived just before sundown to find a heavily garrisoned estate with the gates barred to them. He sighed and banged on the door.

"Who's there?" a guard called from the parapet and peered down at them. There was no disgust or fear when he took in the two swords and the armour. Geralt took that as a good sign. Still, he answered: "We haven't called for one of your kind."

"I know!" Geralt answered quickly, frantically thinking of words to say. Fuck, Jaskier had always been good at that. Geralt wasn't.

"Then why are you here?"

He felt Ciri's small hand in his and suddenly he felt better. "I am seeking refuge," he answered truthfully. “For my child and I.”

"Then seek it someplace else!" The guard turned to walk away and something inside Geralt broke. He looked at the frightened girl next to him, who looked up at him with wide eyes, as if he were a knight come to save her, as if he were a _hero_ and thought of the fate that awaited her if they were turned away and-

"Please," he heard himself say, "I am a friend of-" He racked his brain, searching for the right title. "I'm a friend of his lordship's son!" he finally gave up.

"Master Julian?" the guard called down. "What do you want of him?"

"He is here?" That was the first good news he’d heard in months. "Please, if he is, relay this message to him: I thank him for the invitation. And I am in desperate need for apple juice." The guard barked a laugh and he ground his teeth. He knew it sounded ridiculous. "Just, please, tell him; I only ask for five minutes of his time."

The guard looked down at him and Geralt thought to see pity in his eyes. He ducked his head and hunched his shoulders as if that could make the two sets of eyes on him go away. He had always thought himself a proud man. They had called him many things in his long life. Monster, Mutant, Butcher. He had never caved. He had never begged. But now? What other option did he have?

"Wait here," the guard said and vanished.

Ciri tugged at his hand and he leaned down. Not that he could hear her better, he could hear her just fine when he was standing. But he had discovered that it made her feel calmer when he did so. ‘It makes her calmer when I act like the humans she knows.’ "Are you sure we will be safe here?" she asked.

He nodded. "More than anywhere else. Remember the stories I told you? About Jaskier?"

She looked at him with wide eyes. "Your friend?"

"I-" There was a lump in his throat that didn't belong there. "Yes, my friend. His father is the lord here." 'Or so I hope,' he didn't say. "And it seems he is here, too."

"So, he will let us stay?"

He clenched his teeth. He shouldn't get her hopes up, he knew. There was still a chance that they wouldn't let them stay after all, there was still a chance that they wouldn't want to take a risk, there still was a chance that Jaskier's sympathies for witchers didn't extend to his family- Melitele's tits, there was a chance Jaskier was mad at him with how he treated him the last time they had seen each other. ‘Fuck.’ A rather big chance, now that he thought of it. Still he said: "I'm sure they will."

They sat outside for nearly an hour. Geralt tried to distract Ciri from the wait and the hunger by pointing out different plants and their uses nearby. Unfortunately, none of them were edible. ‘And even if they were, we couldn’t just take them,’ he thought with a sigh.

The sun drew dangerously close to the horizon and he was just about to give up, when, to his surprise, the gates opened. There was a young woman, dressed in a colourful livery and walked while dragging her feet across the ground, accompanied by two armed guards. "The viscount will receive you now," she said quietly, "if you would follow me."

Geralt stood and put a protective arm around Ciri, gently nudging her forward. The guards fell in step behind them and the gates shut with a loud bang. Overall, it could have gone better, he supposed. Though, it probably also could have gone worse.

They were led through a nice and bright courtyard with roomy stables Roach surely would have liked - the thought hurt, though he would never admit it. There were flowers all over, flowing from pots on the ground and spilling over the railing of the gallery that framed the courtyard from all sides. The timber framing was light brown, nearly no contrast against the white infill and the sepia sandstone and the shingles were crimson red. It was so bright and colourful and peaceful, so very _Jaskier_ and such an antithesis to the grim reality of Geralt's life.

Then, the doors opened and it hurt even more. There in the foyer of the north wing was Jaskier staring at him. Well, not Jaskier. A younger version of him, etched onto the canvas of a large painting. He was surrounded by four sisters and what he supposed had to be his parents, dressed in expensive silks and standing tall, as would be expected of the heir. He couldn't quite tear his eyes from it.

"This way, please, Sir Witcher," the servant said and after a moment he followed. There were another two guards standing in front of a heavy oaken door that opened for them when they approached. The hall that laid behind it was just how he had imagined: bright with a high ceiling, decorated with murals of flowers and fighting knights and he could swear some of them carried two swords. Ciri gasped and wanted to run off to marvel at one of the tapestries, but his grip on her shoulder tightened. Hopefully, there would be time for that later.

They were led to the dais at the narrow side of the hall, where three people sat on wooden thrones framed by twice as many guards. The two women on the left and right he though he recognised from the paining in the entrance hall, though they had grown much since the time it had been drawn. And in the middle of them sat- "Jaskier!" he exclaimed in surprise. Jaskier as he had never seen him before, dressed all in black with a sword at his hip and a stony expression on his face.

"The Right Honourable Viscount Lettenhove," the servant announced - corrected? -, "Julian Alfred Pankratz. And his sisters, the Honourable Janina and Józefa Pankratz."

Geralt blinked in confusion. That was _not_ how he had imagined this reunion to go.

"You may bow, witcher," the older of his two sisters said.

Geralt frowned. "I don't understand," he said and took a step forward. At once he was met with crossed halberds and steely glares. "What is happening, J-"

"You may address me as "my lord", witcher," Jaskier interrupted him with a voice as cold as ice. There was not even a trace of recognition in his face.

The faintest hint of panic crept up his spine as he tried to comprehend what was happening. Did Jaskier not remember? Had he been cursed, maybe? But when he looked into his eyes he understood. "I-" His heart sank. Of course, Jaskier remembered him. And even though his face did not betray a thing, his eyes spoke of unbearable pain. 'Fuck,' he thought. "Of course," he said and bowed reluctantly, " _my lord_."

If Jaskier noticed the slight change in his voice, he didn't let on about it. "I am told you wanted to speak to me."

" _Yes_ ," he gritted out, forcing himself to keep his eyes cast downwards. "My lord, I am asking for refuge. We- we have nowhere to turn. A fortnight, maybe, or a week, if you will. For my daughter and I."

"Is this her?" the viscount stood and walked over to them, measuring Cirilla with his glare. "You're certain?"

"I am." He looked at him pleadingly. "Jaskier, please," he said quietly enough that no one else heard, "a week is all I ask, anything-"

"Józefa," he called to his sister, "take the girl and show her to a room where she can rest. And feed her, for Melitele’s sake. She looks as if she is about to keel over from hunger."

His sister stood and hurried over to them. She even smiled, fuck, and it looked so much like Jaskier. Jaskier had never _not_ smiled when they had seen each other again. ‘Looks like I did a lot more damage than anticipated.’ He only tore his eyes from his apparently-not-friend when Ciri tugged on his hand and looked up at him unsure.

He just nodded. "You can trust her," he told her. 'We have to trust them.'

"The rest of you, leave, too." Jaskier made his way back to his place on the dais. "Not a word about any of this. I will have no rumours. Witcher, stay."

It took a few moments after the doors shut behind the last servant and a couple more of awkward silence before Geralt started speaking: "You're wearing black."

"Your observational skills are as formidable as the tales make them out to be," Jaskier answered, sarcasm dripping like poison.

‘Hm.’ In the past he had counted himself lucky that he had been able to evade Jaskier’s words that cut like swords. ‘Seems like I’m all out of luck.’ "It doesn't suit you."

“I’m in mourning.” He wrinkled his nose. "That's an insensitive thing to say to a man whose father has passed not a month ago."

Ah. ‘Shit.’ That explained a lot. Geralt silenced his tongue. He knew he could never win a verbal duel against Jaskier. The man in question, however, did not seem in any hurry to move the conversation forward. In fact, he looked quite content, glaring and keeping quiet. It made him uneasy. After a while he broke: "So?"

That seemed to amuse Jaskier, but he wasn’t sure. "It seems you are waiting for something, witcher."

Fuck, he had been able to read the man like an open book. _Everyone_ had been able to do so, he had never met anyone nearly as expressive as Jaskier. ‘Where have you learned to hide all of that, you bastard?’ he thought and for once in his life he wished that his opponent could read minds like Yennefer.

His “Hmm” was met with more silence.

He shot him a _look_. Jaskier didn’t communicate without words anymore but that didn’t mean Geralt couldn’t. ‘Is this the way we’re doing this?’ it asked. ‘ _Fine_.’ Jaskier wanted words? He could have words. "It seems _you_ are stewing, _my lord_."

There was a crack in the facade, minuscule and nigh unnoticeable but below slumbered a bard lost for words after being told an unsavoury lie about his singing. A smile tugged at the corner of Geralt's mouth and apparently, that was enough to make him break: "You're an idiot, witcher," he hissed, quiet enough that he never would have heard without his enhanced senses. "What were you thinking? Coming here, knocking on my front door in the light of day? Couldn't you have snuck through the kitchens at night like any other person?"

He blinked, taken aback by the onslaught. “I didn’t even know you were here-,“ he tried to defend himself but was quickly cut short: “How dare you? How dare you turn up here of all places? There’s a whole continent for you! Only one Lettenhove for me.”

He measured the man who had been at his side for so long with his eyes. No banter, it seemed. No excuses either. ‘What do you want, Jaskier?’ he tried to ask him with his eyes. ‘Whatever it is, I’ll give it to you for us to stay.’

But he remained silent, neither his mouth nor his face betraying a thing.

Alright. He took a deep breath. He had begged a guard already. He could beg his not-friend, too. "I'm sorry, Jaskier,” he said truthfully, “but I have nowhere left to turn-"

"I know!” He was angry. Very much so. “Which is why I haven't cast you out, yet. You are relatively safe here for a while, what with Nilfgaard’s defeat."

His head jerked around to him. "Nilfgaard has lost?"

“Have you not even wondered why their goons stopped chasing you?”

He shrugged. “Can’t say I noticed. There were enough others to continue where they started.”

No answer.

“What happened?”

"You really don't know," he realised. "There's been a battle at Sodden. A second one. My reports say over thirty thousand dead, among them fourteen mages."

"When was that?" Fear ran down his spine. "Yennefer-"

"She's alive, as far as I know. But she was gravely injured." He leaned back in his seat. "Which is why she can't come and get you. Though I wouldn't advise it anyways. It might be safer for you to continue travelling on foot. How’s Roach?”

“Dead.”

“Pity. How long will you abuse my hospitality?”

He hunched his shoulders. “Until I think of a plan. Or until you throw us out.”

Jaskier frowned. “ _I_ will think of something. You’re no good at that.”

He shrugged. Jaskier was probably right about that. "And how do you expect me to repay you for your kindness?"

"Do not call it kindness, witcher, for it is not. Had you arrived without the girl you wouldn't have entered the keep at all." He folded his hands in his lap. "A promise will be enough, for now," he conceded.

He quirked an eyebrow. "A promise?"

"I will not ask for your oath; I know how little you like to get drawn into the affairs of us petty humans. But my shelter comes not without a cost."

"I didn't think it would." He had, actually. At least until he had stepped into the hall.

"You’re a terrible liar. I protect you with my name and walls. I clothe you and I feed you and those who are yours. In return you council me and protect me with your sword and body. At least, that is how it normally goes." He sighed and leaned his chin on his palm. “You see, were the circumstances different, I would not require such a promise at all. Alas, they are not. I am sure that pains you and me alike. You see, my momentary trust in your… _loyalty_ is a bit exiguous at best.”

He ground his teeth and looked at his feet. "Right..." A flattened oath of fealty. ‘Jaskier, you bastard, if I had another choice-‘

"Unless you prefer the road."

"I do not."

"I did not think so." He extended his hand where a heavy signet ring rested.

He shot him another look. ‘Really?’

Jaskier quirked an eyebrow.

Geralt opened his mouth to ask if that was necessary but before he could say anything, Jaskier said: “It is.”

“ _Fine_.” Reluctantly, Geralt drew closer and took the hand delicately between his own. He cast one last look upwards, pleading, almost begging – ‘Don’t make me do this, please.’ – but Jaskier remained stone-faced. Slowly, he bowed and graced the metal with his lips. "I am... at your service," he said warily, "...my liege."

"Good." Jaskier withdrew his hand and Geralt straightened himself. "Go now. I am in no need of you, witcher."

He exhaled forcefully and turned to follow the command grudgingly. When he had come to Lettenhove he hadn’t expected the day to end like this. He didn’t know what he had even expected but not- _this_.

He had come with the last of his strength, yes, but proud and standing tall. Now he was humiliated, humoured and honour bound by a man he had considered his friend for a long time. ‘And never said it,’ a traitorous voice in the back of his mind hissed.

And for what? For the hope that the man he had sent away would now not sell them out and save their lives. ‘Fuck,’ he thought not for the first time, ‘what have you gotten yourself into?’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, originally that was the whole extent of the fic, plus 300 odd words from Jaskier's perspective.   
> Lucky for you, dear readers, this will not be the case. I think you can at least expect five other chapters before this is done.  
> Come look at my [tumblr](https://dhwty-writes.tumblr.com/) or leave a comment if you like!  
> Also, if any of you is interested in beta reading this fic, come shoot me a message :)


	3. Facades, Family, and Forgery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier wakes up with two new additions to his household. Time to get the plan on tracks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and the plot. Chapter 3 already, wow! We are now 10k words in and there is no fucking way this story will be told in under 10 chapters. I guess more fun for you readers? This chapter is mostly me figuring out the different plot threads out. And to do the Jaskier has ADHD tag justice. The executive dysfunction is strong in that one.

When Jaskier woke up the next morning he couldn't quite force himself to get out of bed. There were days like that, he knew. When the world outside of his pillows and blankets just wasn't _interesting_ enough to lure him out of his heavy cocoon of warmth and bliss. Not that the world inside was any more interesting, but at least he didn't have to move to get there.

It wasn't as if there weren't enough things to do. Melitele have mercy, there was a whole fucking lot to do. There had been some complaints about taxes lately what with the war and a cow had died on the far end of Lettenhove and then there was the matter with Cirilla and Geralt and- ughhh.

He flopped over on his stomach. "It's too much," he complained into his pillow.

He supposed he really should get up, though. The matter of the lost princess half the continent was looking for in his house was somewhat time sensitive, after all.

Ah, there was the other problem. Not only had he woken up already bored, he had also woken up feeling guilty. He wasn't a cruel man; he didn't want anyone to suffer. Anyone but Geralt, and even him just a little bit. He was just _angry_ and he didn't think he'd be able to trust him again for a long time and- great, his mind was getting side-tracked again.

What had he been thinking about before? He groaned again, trying to force his body to get up while he attempted to sort his thoughts that were hidden behind some mysterious fog in his mind. Not a muscle moved. He _hated_ the fog days. He much preferred the days when his mind moved too fast for anyone to follow instead. Well, anyone but Geralt, that was. He had always been rather good at that and now that he was back it could be like that again, maybe. 'No!' he told himself determinately. 'I am still cross with him. I can't allow him to get under my skin that easily again.'

He started tapping out a rapid rhythm on his blanket. 'Oh good,' he thought. 'So, I _can_ move. You know what would be great now? Getting out of bed.' He continued tapping his rhythm, the rest of his body still not moving.

Jaskier sighed heavily. What had he been thinking about? Cirilla, right. Truth be told he was glad, that she was here now. And that she was with Geralt. He didn't want any harm to come to her and there were... approximately two people and a dead horse on the entire continent he would trust her life with.

'Pity that Roach died before making it here,' he caught himself thinking. 'I think she would have liked it. Maybe I should get him a replacement? And the princess, too, they can't very well ride double all the time and I won't allow Geralt to make the poor girl walk the whole way. I know what that's like, I had to suffer through it long enough. I wonder if she likes flowers? She deserves a nice saddle. And nice clothes, too! Oh, maybe I can call a tailor. That would be a great opportunity to get Geralt into something resembling fashion, too. Maybe even a bit of colour? Oh, bad memories, that went totally sideways the last time we tried-'

"Fuck!" he cursed quietly. One moment he had been thinking about Roach and the next about Pavetta's betrothal - how had he even gotten there? And what had he been thinking about before that?

Right, two people and a dead horse. One of them had nearly died on Sodden Hill according to his intelligence and the other one was somewhere in Lettenhove Hall - preferably in his room next to Cirilla (of course he hadn't separated them, he was no complete monster). He should probably go talk to her soon. Welcome her, apologise for his harsh treatment of the day before, that sort of thing.

Ah, yes, like that he could put the cranky villagers off for a while. Slowly, he sat up. 'Finally.'

He still needed a plan. Jaskier groaned and dropped back down.

"Why did I do this?" he whined into the empty room. "It's always easier when I'm already sitting."

Well, now he wasn't sitting anymore. Great. And the idea of meeting the princess was not enticing enough to move him again. _Great_.

"I really need to get better at this..." He just laid there for a while, staring at the canopy above, following the same colourful threads with his eyes he had stared at a thousand times, bored out of his mind. Yet, every time he tried to pull a thought close it either vanished or actively tried to get away, to be replaced with the _insufferable_ chorus of _The Fishmonger's Daughter_. 'Why on _earth_ did I write such a _despicable_ song?' he asked himself not for the first time.

His salvation came in form of a firm knock. "My lord?" the voice of Jakub, his manservant sounded muffled through the wood. "Are you up yet?"

"Almost!" Suddenly, it was very easy to jump out of bed and scurry over to the clothes laid out for him. "You, Jakub" he exclaimed excitedly when he entered with a tray of food, "are _god-sent_. You see, I just couldn't bring myself to get up and go about my day and the you appeared and now it is all very easy- Oh, are those raspberry tarts? I love those-"

"They are, my lord," he answered calmly and moved to lace up Jaskier's shirt, while the latter shoved little raspberry cakes into his mouth.

He could see his exasperation plain on his face when that didn't keep him from talking: "I couldn't even think right, I was thinking about Roach and the witcher and do you think the girl would like an embroidered saddle? I was thinking buttercups, though, no, that would be better for my next one. Can saddles be embroidered posthumously? No, that's not the right word, I seem to have forgotten it- Jakub, you are very silent today, is everything alright?"

"Quite, my lord. You are very talkative today. I wouldn't want to interrupt you."

"Right," his mind seemed to slow for just a moment. "I am sorry about that. It seems I am having one of those days."

The servant shook out the doublet and held it for him to slip into the sleeves. "Shall I inform the staff, my lord?"

"I think that would be reasonable. How are my dear sisters?"

"Very vocal about their displeasure to share a roof with a witcher, my lord." He buttoned up the last of Jaskier's doublet.

Jaskier frowned and popped the last two buttons open again. "Only Janina, I hope?"

"Indeed, my lord. She has also pronounced her plans to leave for Goldfurt immediately. They are already packing. Lady Józefa, on the other hand, appears quite smitten with... both of your guests."

He wrinkled his nose and ate the last of the raspberry tarts. "As I have feared. Stop the packing at once, no one is to leave Lettenhove unless I tell them to. Until further notice. Make time in my schedule for both of them." He halted and sat down to let Jakub put on his boots. "Actually, clear my whole schedule for the day." He sucked the last of the sour berry juice from his fingers. "But be sure to put the names of my sisters and my two guests on it. And think of solutions."

"Think of solutions, my lord?"

He shot him a confused look. "Did I say something else?"

"Not at all, my lord," Jaskier admired him for keeping a straight face. "I just wanted to make sure."

"Good." He looked around. It was obviously light in his rooms, so it couldn't be that early anymore. He only hoped he hadn't wasted half of his day. Again. "What time is it?"

"The sun has risen an hour ago and your witcher with it. He is stalking the halls in the guest wing and frightening the servants."

Jaskier frowned. "Send someone to tell him to stop. I won't have that."

"If I may be so frank, my lord?"

He waved his hand as a sign for him to continue.

"I fear you may be pressed to find some kind of occupation for him lest you want this to be a frequent occurrence. As long as he is meant to be in your service, I mean."

"I know. I am already thinking about it." He flashed him a bright smile. "That is _exactly_ why you will put 'think of solutions' on the schedule. If he gets too restless before I find one, send him to the stables. He's good with horses."

"Shall I write down the issues you need to find them for, too?"

He smiled even brighter. "See? That is why you are in my service. You are _very_ clever."

For a moment he thought, Jakub smiled, too. "Thank you, my lord." He surely had to be mistaken.

"Just do not put the names of my guests on it, if you please. Such a document would be very dangerous indeed."

He blinked. "I do not know the names of the witcher and the girl yet, my lord."

"Even better." He leaned back and folded his hands across his stomach. "Now go. I believe you've got a witcher to chastise."

Jakub looked very uneasy all of a sudden. "And the girl, my lord?"

Jaskier stood and straightened his doublet. "And the girl, indeed, Jakub. And the girl, indeed."

He made his way towards the door and was only stopped when Jakub said: "Your sword, my lord."

"Right!" He whirled around and took the offered weapon, tightening the belt. "I'm bad with new things, I'm sorry..."

"Always the same routine, Lord Julian," he said quietly and Jaskier half suspected that he wasn't supposed to hear that.

"Right," he answered cheerfully, "and I always forget." He was already out the door when he peeked his head back inside. "Don't forget the schedule," he reminded his manservant with a quick smile. "And the pacing witcher."

For the first time in a long while there was an odd little spring in his step when Jaskier walked. He even smiled at some of the servants, startling poor Marta that she dropped the pitcher of water she was carrying. When he apologised and bent to pick up the shards, she dropped the mop, too.

It was just his luck that that was the moment Józefa rushed along. "My darling sister," he jumped into her way, "how are you this morning?"

"I'm fine, Julek," she kissed him on the cheek lightly. "It seems you are, too."

"It seems, doesn't it?" He smiled at her. "Where are you going?"

She rolled her eyes. "What do you want?"

Jaskier gasped and clutched at his chest in mock hurt. "Why, can't a man not crave a simple conversation with his sister to wish her a good morning?"

"A different man, most certainly. You are not that kind of man. So?"

He smirked and batted his eyelashes at her. "Will you do me a favour?"

"Depends," she crossed her arms. "What's in it for me?"

"You get to spend more time with our lovely young guest, uh-"

"Fiona?" she supplied.

"Fiona! That's good! Show her around the castle, will you? The stables, the gardens, the library. Find out what she likes."

"I will. Will you tell me who she is in turn?"

Jaskier laughed. "Most certainly. A hundred different stories. Will you spread them for me?"

"I have already written Nadia and Irena about it; the word will be out in no time. You know they cannot keep their mouths shut. Will any of these stories be true?"

"Perhaps. Not a word about who she arrived with, I trust?"

She frowned. "What are you talking about? She arrived alone. The witcher isn't due to arrive until tomorrow."

"I do love you, Józia." He smiled and kissed her on the cheek, too. "Why have you never come to Oxenfurt? I am sure Dijkstra would be delighted to have you in his faculty."

"I would have. Alas, I think one runaway is enough for the family." She winked. "Off you go, brother, I'm sure you have a lot of things to do."

He groaned loudly. "Don't remind me..." Still he walked away, quickly bending out of the way of a servant. "See you at dinner," he called after her, "and keep Janina out of my hair for a few hours, will you?"

She laughed loudly. "I'll do my worst. Good day, my lord." And with that she had twirled around a corner and vanished.

Jaskier took his time to check upon the kitchens and the stables and his new horse, Pegasus. He was still small, hardly large enough to be ridden yet, but in a year or two he would make a very fine steed, he hoped. Not that he knew anything about horses but he trusted that he would be in good hands with his stablemaster Wiktor. He also informed the man that he could expect a very grumpy witcher to join him in the course of the day who he was advised to treat kindly.

"Why?" Wiktor asked distrustful. "Is he dangerous?"

Jaskier smiled brightly at that. "Not in the slightest. It is I who do not take kindly to insults made about my guests."

The old equerry shrugged. "As long as he's kind to the horses he won't find any trouble here."

"Good." He turned to leave. "Should there be trouble regardless, call for me if you will."

He grunted in reply. 'The two of them will get along very well,' he thought. He passed Cirilla and Józefa on his way inside and smiled and waved at them. When his sister signalled for him that Janina was nearby, he slipped away quickly.

When he shouldered the door to his study open, laden with an array of heavy tomes there was his schedule on his desk already. "Good man, Jakub," he muttered and began sorting through the books and sheets of parchments. Once satisfied he plopped down on his seat.

"Now, father," he murmured and pulled open the drawer of the desk, closely examining the writing utensils, "let's see what kind of semi-legal activities you were prepared for."

A fully developed plan had settled in his mind during the course of the morning. All that was needed now, was a tiny bit of forgery and they would be on their merry way. It should be done in no more than four hours - with some kind of allowance, he was a bit rusty after all.

He was just correcting the last few strokes on the fake latter he had written, when there were furious steps in the corridor. "Julian Alfred Pankratz!" The door flew open with a bang and nearly knocked an unspeakably ugly vase off its pedestal.

"Not the vase," Jaskier said emotionless, "Father loved it oh so much."

Janina ignored him completely as she stormed inside with swirling skirts. " _What_ ," she demanded and slammed her hands on his desk with just enough time for him to save his handiwork, "were you _thinking_?"

"Good day to you, too, dear sister," he said and blew the ink dry. "What has gotten into you?"

"You can't just _order_ me to _stay_!"

He tapped the tip of his quill against his lip as if he were contemplating the issue. "In fact, I can." He pointed her quill at her. "I already have."

"I will not tolerate this! I refuse to live under the same roof as a mutant-"

He rolled his eyes as he tried to secure as many breakable objects on his desk as possible. "Here we go..."

"- who steals and eats children!" She grabbed a bar of seal wax and chucked it across the room. "I knew you were eccentric; I knew you travelled with one of them for two decades though I cannot _fathom_ why, but _bringing_ on here? Forcing me to share my home with him? A home you haven't even deigned to visit in the last quarter century? You are going too far, Julian!"

"Are you finished?"

"Finished?" she shouted. "I haven't even started yet!" Jaskier sighed and leaned his chin on his palm. That could take a while. He suffered through her tirade dispassionately, trying to flesh out the last details of his plan while she raged on and on and on. He had long learned to stop listening to her rants. Until- "And the child!"

He sighed. "What about her?"

"Who is she even-"

"None of your business."

"-one of your bastards? Did you bed a monster to need a witcher to bring her here?"

He stood abruptly. "Janina, you go too far."

"No, Julian, _you_ went too far! Twenty years ago, when you just vanished! And then you just _show up_ again and get the title."

"I didn't want it!" he shouted back. "I still don't want it! It was what father wanted, not me. Do not confuse your anger at him with your anger at me!"

"You still took it!"

"Take it back once I am a dead, for all I care. But as long as I am breathing, I am the Lord of Lettenhove, whether we like it or not. When I tell you, you do not leave, _you do not leave_. Get it together, Janina. I will not have you insult my guests any longer."

She narrowed her eyes to slits and leaned in close. "I hate you," she hissed in his ear. Then, she whirled around and stalked from the room.

"Well, you're not my favourite sister at the moment either!" he called after her, though his voice was drowned out by the bang the door shut with.

With a sigh he sat back down and pulled his letters out again. It was not his best work, he had to admit, though anything he forged these days could hardly compare to what he had done during his time in Oxenfurt. He had memorised the handwriting of all of his classmates perfectly and of quite a few professors and nobles, too. That had been one of the reasons why Dijkstra had recruited him in the first place. Well, that and that there were not many people who were as reliable as him when it came to spreading as well as listening to rumours.

He was just dispassionately drawing a scrawly sketch by young 'Fiona' - always a nice touch - when the door flew open again. "You frighten Ciri with your shouting," Geralt growled.

Jaskier was very glad that an angry witcher had long lost its effect on him. "You frighten my people with your pacing," he shot back.

Geralt snarled. "I have stopped."

"Good," he answered and turned back to his sketch, purposefully smudging the lines. No child ever drew without smudging the lines. When the witcher was still in the door a few moments later he looked up again. "I have stopped shouting, too."

"Just... don't do it again!"

"I'm sorry," he said slowly and put his pencil down. "What did you just say?"

That gave him the opportunity to see something truly marvellous happen: for a moment he saw a witcher - oh no, not just any witcher, but Geralt of Rivia - pale. "Nothing."

"Interesting sounds you make when you say nothing."

"I'm sorry. Is that what you want to hear?" Geralt's eyes darted around like a doe's before being shot. "Fuck, Jaskier, I can't read you anymore."

He allowed himself the tiniest of smiles. 'Good.' "I want another tone, witcher. You're forgetting who you're talking to. And I want you to never utter that name within these walls again."

"Jaskier?" He sounded confused. 'Poor man.' "It's your _name_ , what else should I call you?"

"Oh? I thought I'd told you already. You may call me "my lord", here."

Geralt closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Jaskier could see how he was fighting with himself. "Forgive me, my lord," he said finally, "I did not mean to." He didn't clarify what he hadn't meant to but for the moment that was enough for Jaskier. "Is there anything else?"

"Come sit with me, witcher," Jaskier said and pointed to the chair opposite to him. "Time to tell you why you are here."

Begrudgingly he pushed away from the door and sat down across him. If he didn't know it any better, Jaskier could have sworn he was limping. "Why am I here then, my lord?"

He sighed and leaned back in his chair, folding his hands across his stomach. "First things first: The girl you didn't arrive with is one my cousins."

"Cousin," Geralt deadpanned.

He waved his hand around. "Distant relative, I have a lot of them. You see, she normally lives with her family down in Verden but has recently been orphaned. And because I have such a soft heart, I have decided to take her in. I have visited my dear cousin Daniela not three years past and have become acquainted with the girl then. We have been in contact ever since I got here. Look, not three months ago Daniela even sent me a sketch Fiona had made!"

He held up the drawing he was working on and let Geralt scowl at it. "It's hideous."

He very nearly pouted. "Don't be mean, witcher. Cousin Fiona drew this!"

He sighed. "Fine. That's a good story but what if they discover you don't actually have a cousin named Fiona?"

"What do you mean? I actually do have a cousin Daniela in Verden! Well, did, she died in the cradle but that's the least of my problems." He turned the big tome he had been working on around. "Good thing Lettenhove uses the good parchment for the family records, eh? So easy to scratch one date off, replace it by another and add a new name. It's clear as day, witcher. The girl staying at my home is Fiona Nowak and no-one can doubt it. And we are all thrilled to have her here."

Geralt stared at the family tree and the letters in disbelief. "How did you..."

"I didn't attend Oxenfurt Academy for nothing, keep it up, witcher. Anyways, where was I?"

"You wanted to tell me what I am doing here."

"Why, you're just an old friend of mine, arriving tomorrow, by the way, enjoying my company and drowning your grief about your dead child surprise you never knew in my wine cellar while I comfort you with my ballads."

"Really?"

His expression grew serious once more. "No, witcher. My wine cellar is off limits. As are my ballads."

He nodded, looking over the letters again. "That is more than I hoped for, actually," Geralt confessed. "You do not have to keep us here. My lord."

Jaskier hummed thoughtfully. "I assume you had a destination with Cousin Fiona?"

He grunted.

"Words, witcher."

"Kaedwen."

He sighed. "And I assume it is not exactly near Montecalvo? Or Mirt? Or anywhere within a reasonable distance of here?"

"No, _my lord_."

"I didn't think so. So, your plan was to cross one mountain range travel through probably half of Kaedwen in what? One month before your wherever-you're-going becomes inaccessible due to the snow? The leaves start falling already. Normally you were nowhere to be seen by now."

Geralt blinked stupidly as if he was realising only now just _how_ ridiculous that sounded.

"No, witcher, I think it is better for you to stay here for the winter and start out again come spring. So, you are not only staying a week. Which is why I need a good cover story to explain how my household has gained two new members."

He didn't reply to that for a while, just sat there and ducked his head. Then, very quietly: "Thank you, my lord."

"Do not thank me yet. Thank me once we have weathered this winter without being disturbed. I am a bit concerned about... some of the loyalties in my hose."

He snorted. "I noticed. It seems not all of your family are as inclined to my kind as you are."

"You'd do best to keep your ears to yourself here, witcher." Jaskier frowned. Of course, he should have thought of that before starting a screaming match with Janina. Well, he would have to remember for the future.

"I will. Though if you ever needed someone to talk to, my lord-"

"I will certainly not call upon you." That hurt. He could see it in Geralt's eyes. 'Not as much as the mountain, I bet.'

The witcher wrinkled his nose in disgust, grossed his arms and leaned back in his seat.

Jaskier did his best to turn back to the letters, he still had to age them after all, but his skin prickled under the intense stare of his former friend. " _What_?" he snapped after a short while.

Geralt raised an eyebrow in answer.

"There's something bothering you, I can sense it. Out with it. Now."

He sighed and leaned forward. "Where are all the people, my lord?"

"What people?" He scoffed. "I'm just a viscount, witcher. And although I might be famous for my life before returning to my rightful place, we do not entertain big courts. The biggest thing that happens here is the annual fair. Then people from my other two villages and a few in the area come here to get drunk and leave again a week later."

"You're still rich, though. I expected-"

"What?"

"- a bard, maybe?"

"Why would I be in need of a bard?"

"Some friends from Oxenfurt, then?"

"I appear to have lost them when I took to the Path for a quarter century."

"You have two other sisters-"

"Married."

"Nieces and nephews-"

"Too young."

" _Cousins_ -!"

"Stop it!"

"You're evading my questions, bard."

"And you're overstepping your boundaries," he hissed. "I am no bard anymore. Back off, witcher!"

Something changed in Geralt's expression. A tiny part that had been soft, hardened once more. "Right..." he said quietly. "In that case, my lord, forgive me."

"Leave," Jaskier ordered icily.

"Jas- my lord-" Geralt started but he didn't even let him finish: "I don't care, I tell you to leave, you _leave_."

He got up with a quiet sigh. "Sure. Whatever _my lord_ commands." The door still shut behind him with a bang.

“If all of you,” he shouted after him, “could stop abusing my poor doorframes, it would be greatly appreciated!”

The door opened again and Jakub peered inside. “Is something the matter, my lord?”

“No,” he huffed as he collected the letters. “Everything is going just peachy. Why wouldn’t it be with my witcher-hating sister – who also hates me by the way – a witcher, his- _charge_ and _everyone else_ in my household who dislikes me for some reason or another!”

He blinked, obviously overwhelmed with the burst of words of his lord. “My lord?”

He sighed and rubbed his temples. “Just forget it. Find out if the witcher's injured. Once you have an answer, come to me at once."

He bowed quickly. “Of course, my lord.”

And with that he brushed past him out of the study, armed with letters and family tree alike, looking for his sisters. The viscount had news to deliver.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, that's that. Honestly, this fic is so much fun. Also poor Jaskier. It was so great to leave that first scene mostly unedited, though, without having to figure our how to group all those seemingly unrelated thoughts together lmao  
> Leave a comment or hop over to my [tumblr](https://dhwty-writes.tumblr.com/) if you like!  
> Also I am still looking for a beta reader for this fic, so if you're interested, let me know!


	4. A Broken Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt has been in Lettenhove for less than a day and he is already done with it. And - who would have guessed it? - it can get even worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Looks like we continue in the 4k words range. Looks like we also continue churning out daily chapters. I just want to inform you that this is not my normal modus operandi. Not that I am not pleasantly surprised. Enjoy!

Geralt slammed the door to the study shut behind him. He had been in Lettenhove Hall for less than a day and he already had enough of it. He fucking hated that everyone in this castle took the opportunity to just _order him around_ whenever it presented itself. And not just that: there was absolutely nothing he could do about it!

He grunted in frustration and began the quite long way back to his rooms. 'Bastard,' he thought as he began climbing down the stairwell that led back to the courtyard. It was very obviously that his presence in Lettenhove Hall was only _tolerated_. If it hadn't been already by curtesy of Jaskier’s treatment, the fact that he had lodged them as far away from his own quarters in the east wing as possible without depositing him with the servants in the west, was a pretty strong indicator. At least he doubted that they were given the rooms above the gate house for the nice view on the town that lay to the south of the castle.

They were nice rooms, though, and by now he was fairly certain that Jaskier wouldn't throw _Ciri_ out for his disobedience but that said nothing about him. No, if he was honest with himself, he was pretty sure his not-friend would be delighted to show him the door and if it was just to show him that he could. Or at least that was what he thought.

He pushed a door open and stumbled into the daylight. Only that he hadn't landed in the courtyard but on the gallery one floor above. With a wall on the other side. And no stairs. Great. He turned back inside. Now he'd taken the wrong turn, too. Lettenhove, while much smaller than Kaer Morhen, was no less a labyrinth as he discovered - and nearly as much an enigma as its master.

Because that was another huge fucking problem. Whenever he thought he finally caught a glimpse of Jaskier behind that facade, it vanished just as quickly. Whenever he thought he could finally pin down Jaskier's motivation or thoughts, they were contradicted the next moment. 'He changed a lot in those past eighteen months,' he thought angrily and stopped in his tracks. 'Or was I just too dumb to notice?'

He frowned and started pacing. Probably the latter. Since his arrival the previous evening he had learned more about Jaskier than in the last decade or so. His father was dead and his mother, too - at least there was no trace of a Lady Pankratz in the castle. He knew that he was a benevolent lord - that was no surprise - though strict - that very much was. He had learned that Jaskier had not only one but four sisters, two of whom were married and did not live in Lettenhove and one who was also married and vied for Jaskier's title. And that he knew how to fake various documents entirely too well for any law-abiding citizen.

That meant that he probably didn't know Jaskier half as well as he had imagined himself to. 'Great.'

He had also learned that he was apparently in some kind of _mood_ today which struck him as odd. Geralt knew plenty of Jaskier's moods, of his thoughts that were too fast for his mouth to keep up, of his vanishing thoughts, of his laziness and his stories that always took two dozen detours as well as his mouth that spoke without thinking. He had lived through all of them - and not minded half as much as he'd always said. And today there had been no sign of any mood. ' _Great_ ,' he thought, 'so he's learned to hide that, too.'

"Sir?"

" _What_?" Geralt whipped around. It was that man again, the one who had come to him in the morning already to tell him that ‘ _His Lordship ordered that you cease your pacing at once_ ’.

"I was told to inform you, witcher-"

"That's not my name," he growled.

The man blinked stupidly. Actually, he looked really stupid in general. 'This must be the most boring person in the world,' he thought as he took in the grey-haired man with the greyish skin wearing a grey doublet and grey breeches. "I'm afraid, we have not been introduced yet."

"Geralt of Rivia."

"Of course," he straightened his doublet. "At request of his Lordship, I find myself pressed to direct you to the stables."

Now it was Geralt who was blinking stupidly. "What? Why?"

"His Lordship demanded that in case you started pacing again, you would be sent to the stables. He also said that you are better talking to horses than people and that at least you won't scare them with your lack of social abilities."

Geralt was positively fuming. "Jaskier-" he growled. He would really like to strangle the bard right then. "Go tell _his Lordship_ to go fuck himself."

The man looked appalled. "I would rather not. I prefer to avoid his anger. Though I can send an armed escort and you can go tell himself. If that is your wish, witcher. Still, I would advise a more peaceful approach to your stay in his Lordship's home."

Geralt frowned. ' _You're forgetting who you're talking to_ ,' he remembered Jaskier's words. "Right," he said. He might be fairly sure that Jaskier wouldn't throw Ciri out again, still he should know better than picking fights the first day. 'You know Jaskier,' he told himself, 'just trying to rile you up. He'll have forgiven you before you know it.'

He took a deep breath to clear the anger from his mind. "I know where the stables are."

The man smiled. "I'll just make sure you arrive there, too."

Geralt rolled his eyes and grunted, turning to the stairs leading to the courtyard. 'A bloody escort,' he thought, weaving through the small corridors, 'fucking great.'

The courtyard was just as awe-inspiringly beautiful as he remembered from the previous day with the only difference that there were a lot more people about now in the afternoon. Just as he stepped outside, he saw Jaskier in front of the stables, wearing all black riding clothes.

'Don't touch Roach,' was the first thing he thought when he saw him with the chestnut mare, petting her and sneaking her treats. 

'Be careful,' he thought next when he put the reins over her neck, to grab them and the horn of the saddle with one hand and the back with the other. 

His breath hitched when Jaskier brought his left foot to the stirrup and hoisted himself up. He half expected him to keel over to the other side or the horse to throw him right off again or anything else horrible- None of that happened. The horse just snickered quietly and he leaned over her neck to pet her and whisper encouraging words into her ear.

Then the gates opened and Geralt's thoughts stopped working for a bit. Jaskier clicked his tongue loudly and pressed his heels to her flanks. A moment later he was off down the road and Geralt could do nothing but stare after him and- stare. 'Jaskier can ride,' he realised very belatedly. And fuck, he rode like a madman, too.

He was still staring and wondering where he might be off to, when his attention was recaptured by the grey man who was walking to the stables. "Wiktor," he demanded, "come out here!"

A man who was roughly about Geralt's height stepped outside with an annoyed expression on his face, rolling his eyes at the grey man and looking Geralt up and down. "You're the witcher?"

"Geralt of Rivia."

"Wiktor. You can go now," He told Geralt's escort and tilted his head. "The Viscount said you know horses?"

"Have had quite a few."

The stablemaster scoffed. "That bad, huh?"

It took Geralt a while to understand what the man was saying. Then he snorted. "Horses don't even last a human lifetime. Never mind a witcher's."

"How old are you?"

Geralt thought for a moment. "Old."

Wiktor snorted "Wouldn't have guessed it. Come, I'll introduce you to their majesties."

By ‘their majesties’ Wiktor meant, to Geralt's relief, the resident horses in Lettenhove. There were ten in total, six belonging to the general garrison and four that could count as true nobility. The old dark palfrey of the late Viscount Alfred had seen better days but the chestnut mare belonging to one of Jaskier's sisters was true beauty. “His Lordship just took the other one,” Wiktor informed him. “They’re twins.” Geralt nodded, wondering what he would have to do to ride one of them.

"And that," Wiktor concluded and strolled over to a beautiful white yearling, "is our newest addition. Master- sorry, Lord Julian's new horse. His name's Pegasus."

Geralt snorted and let the gelding nuzzle his shoulder.

"Ridiculous name, I know."

"He’s Jas- _Lord Julian's_ horse. Could've been worse."

Wiktor snuck Pegasus a treat. "Your horses had names?"

"Roach," he answered.

"And the others?"

"Roach."

He frowned. "All of them?"

"Hm."

That earned him a laugh. "And you mock him for Pegasus? That's hardly fair."

Geralt was still thinking about how to answer that when Wiktor clapped him on the back. "You can start brushing them out, if you want. The lads neglect that normally. You know how?"

"Sure."

"Good. Equipment's in the back." He left him, so Geralt was on his own to figure out where exactly said back with the equipment was, but he quickly found hard and soft brushes as well as a curry comb and got to work.

When he was done with the first two horses, he was still wondering what kind of bizarre punishment this was supposed to be. After finishing the fourth, he was pretty sure it wasn't a punishment at all.

He was quite content to spend the rest of his day like that until the blessed silence was - of course - interrupted by a Pankratz sibling: "Stefan, where's my- Stefan! Gods, where is that useless boy- oh!"

Geralt turned around and saw Jaskier's younger sister standing in the doorway, dressed in black riding clothes. It was remarkable how little and yet how much she looked like her elder brother. Her face was rounder still, as was all of her, truth be told, and her hair golden instead of brown, yet she had the same blue eyes all the Pankratz siblings seemed to share. And he'd be damned if the smile wasn't exactly the same.

"Witcher," she greeted him with that familiar smile.

"I'm not Stefan.” He offered a little bow. "My lady."

"I know. He's one of the stable hands. Though it is just as fine that I am stumbling upon you. I didn't expect to find you down here. Whatever are you doing here?"

Geralt grunted and moved to turned continue brushing the horse.

"I'm sorry, what was that?"

Of course. Why would Jaskier's sister know when to shut the fuck up? "Got told off for pacing."

That made her laugh, though it was a puzzle to him why that should be funny. "And who would dare to send the White Wolf muck out stables?"

"Didn't ask for a name."

"Of course, you didn't." For him the conversation was done. Still, she looked at him expectantly. When he failed to give a satisfactory - or any - answer, she asked: "Well, what did the gentleman - or lady - in question look like?"

He shrugged. "Normal man. Middle aged. Grey hairs. Boring."

She laughed again. Was she mocking him? But there was no trace of that to be found, only true amusement. "You wouldn't be talking about our dear Jakub, would you?" This time, thankfully, she didn't wait for an answer: "Though boring does describe him rather well. He is my brother's manservant, almost never leaves his side. Though what Julek sees in him I can't tell."

Geralt frowned. "Hm." Was she insinuating that Jaskier and Jakub were- involved? The plain man was so unlike Jaskier's other conquests; he would have sooner guessed him to have taken a tumble with Wiktor.

"Anyways, if you wish to be relieved from your dreary punishment, consider it done. I am sure you could imagine _much_ more interesting activities."

"I like horses," he answered. Being in the stables was probably the least 'dreary' activity in the castle - besides spending time with Ciri.

"How about you come with me for a ride, then? That way you can be with horses and tell me about some of your adventures."

'Gods, no.' The mere thought was mortifying. "I like the _quiet_."

"Oh, I can be quiet. I won't be-"

"-but silent back-up, yes, I know." He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Physical dissimilarities be damned, that was definitely Jaskier's sister. 'Melitele save me.' "I would to prefer to stay here, my lady."

"And let me ride alone, you brute?" She even pouted like Jaskier. "What if some kind of scoundrel tries to endanger my virtue?"

"I can fetch you a guard if you're worried."

"Well, you're no fun at all!"

"If you want to be entertained, maybe you should employ a juggler."

"You’re rude!" she declared. "Julek has got a terrible taste in men. I don't know what he sees in you, either."

A snort echoed through the stables. "As if yours is any better," Jaskier answered. "As if _yours_ isn't the _same_. Back off, Józefa, my witcher has standards."

There was an odd warm feeling in the pit of his stomach when Jaskier called him his witcher and he found himself distracted for a moment by the sight of him. The Lord of Lettenhove leaned against a wooden pillar, his doublet nearly completely undone under his cloak and his hair windswept with the occasional leaf stuck in it. His left hand rested on the pommel of his sword. 'Wonder if he knows how to use it.'

"Obviously not very high ones," Józefa's words brought him back to reality. "Don't you have any decency, brother?"

"That goes without saying." Jaskier sauntered over to them, closing the buttons. "He only takes a tumble with powerful witches who could - and would - kill him with the flick of a wrist. And for your information, I do. I am a viscount, after all."

"A friend, I suppose?"

"More of an acquaintance of mine. You would like her, though. Magical gossip is even better than normal one."

‘Wait, what-?’ He stared at Jaskier. He hadn’t thought too much of it when he had told him about Yennefer the previous day, but that almost sounded like they had talked to each other only recently. ‘That almost sounds like they _like_ each other.’

Józefa scrunched her nose and turned back to Geralt. "So, about that ride-"

"Not interested," he grunted. "My lady."

Jaskier cackled gleefully. "Told you."

She shut him up with a dark look. "And you would know plenty about his disinterest, wouldn't you?"

"Maybe I do." He waved her off with a hand. "Off you go, Józefa. Your horse is waiting outside. She's a bit slow, though."

She scowled and for a moment Geralt thought she might start shouting at him. To his surprise, she just pecked her brother on the cheek. "See you at dinner, Julek." With that she was off and there was blessed silence again.

At least until he broke it: "Is she always like this?" he heard himself asking. "My lord."

"That is none of your business, witcher." Geralt nearly flinched at the coldness in his voice. "Just do all of us a favour and do not fuck my sister. Neither of them."

Geralt frowned. 'Weird to hear that advice from Jaskier.' "Didn't plan on it," he answered.

Jaskier turned to face him and tilted his head.

"My lord," he added.

Still, the viscount did not stop staring, measuring him with his glare like some- some- "Walk up and down the aisle," he commanded.

"I'm not some kind of dancing bear you can make walk on his hind legs on command."

"Just do it, witcher."

He stared at him, trying to get him to relent, but Jaskier didn't even blink. Geralt bristled with anger and pushed past him, but did as he was told all the same.

When he stopped in front of him again, Jaskier still stared at him. "How long since the fight?" he simply asked.

"You, b-" He looked around as if he was searching for onlookers. Safe for the horses they were alone. "How did you-"

"Just answer the question.”

Geralt ground his teeth. "Four days, my lord."

Jaskier snorted and started walking. "Come."

He hesitated only a moment before following the command. "Where are we going?"

"Back to your room," Jaskier snarled. This time Geralt did flinch. He had never witnessed such pure and unadulterated anger in his bard.

They covered the short distance from the stables in the West Wing to Geralt's room above the gatehouse in silence save for the time when Jaskier flagged down a servant to utter an order.

Only when the door fell shut behind them, did he start talking: "I can't believe you haven't told me before!", Jaskier hissed.

"There wasn't really an opportunity for that." After a moment he added: "My lord."

"Nonsense," he declared. There was a sharp knock on the door and a moment later an elderly woman entered and bowed to them both.

"My lord," she said, "are you unwell?"

"No," answered and pointed at Geralt. "He is."

"I-" Geralt started and was promptly interrupted again: "Sit down, shut up and let her do her work," Jaskier ordered. "You're hurt, don't pretend you're not."

Without thinking he did as he was told. If he was completely honest, his injuries from the fight did still hurt. They would heal on their own, of course, but maybe a healer wasn't the worst idea.

"Fiona?" was all that Jaskier asked.

"Next door, my lord."

"I expect to see you at dinner," he said and left the room.

Geralt looked up at the healer and quirked an eyebrow. She crossed her arms. "What are you waiting for, lad?" she croaked. "Get undressed, I can't see your injuries with your clothes on!"

He sighed. He should probably get used to being ordered around. He suffered through the whole healing session silently, only sometimes answering her questions and completely ignoring her tuts about all his scars and how badly most of them had healed. When she was probing at a particularly nasty one, he raised his head in exasperation: " _His lordship's_ responsible for that one."

She clicked her tongue. "Of course, he is. Master Julian has never been good at sewing." She prodded at the newest one, still not quite healed and probably a bit infected. "You really should take better care of yourself, young man." 

He wanted to retort that he was probably far older that her but she raised her hand. "Ah ah ah! No protesting!" She started rummaging around in the oversized bag she had brought, putting selves on the nightstand next to his bed and explaining their uses - which he knew already. Still, he found himself too dumbstruck to say anything. She glared at him and threw his breeches again. "You can get dressed again. I'm done." With that she turned to leave. 

"Wait!" he called after her when she was already at the door. "I have no coin to pay you."

She tutted again. "Silly witcher. Master Julian has paid already." With that he left Geralt alone to get dressed and once more reassess Jaskier's intentions.

"Geralt?" There was a timid knock on his door, accompanied by Ciri's frail voice.

"Yeah," he sat up and quickly pulled a shirt over his head. "Come on in."

The door opened just a bit and she slipped inside.

"How was your day?" he asked once she was comfortably settled against him and he had one arm around her.

"Fine," she said, "I think I like Józefa. She smiles a lot. And the woman who met us at the gate yesterday spent a lot of time with me today. Look, she even did my hair!" She displayed the braided bun proudly.

"Hm. You like that?"

"I think so."

"Good."

"Julian came talk to me, too."

"Jul-? Ah. And?"

"I don't know. He was weird."

"Weird how?" Geralt frowned. "Was he mean?" 'Jaskier, if you fuck this up-'

"No, I don't think so. Just weird. Not like yesterday. He got down to his knees and called me princess and all that. He also smiled a lot and told me of his plan and all. He was pretty nice."

Geralt blinked in confusion. "What's the problem then?"

She chewed her lip. He had given up trying to correct her. "I think he doesn't like me."

That startled him even more. Jaskier did not just not like people. Jaskier liked everybody. And everybody liked Jaskier in return. Those, at least, who didn't have to spend more than ten minutes at a time with him. "Why would you think that?"

"He doesn't like you."

"That's-" Geralt faltered. '- true, probably.' He sighed. They did not have the time to lead that conversation. Nor did he have the nerves. "Jas- Lord Pankratz asked us to join him for dinner. We should be polite guests and hurry. It's not nice to be late." He got up and pulled Ciri on her feet.

"I hate dinners," she complained.

"Me too," he agreed. "But it will make Lord Pankratz happy."

It was already dark outside when they walked back to the East Wing, where dinner was usually eaten as Ciri informed him. He nearly cursed. 'How come she knows twice as much as me about Lettenhove already?'

She took him by the hand and led him into the building and up a flight of stairs from where he could already hear the sounds of cutlery on plates and the occasional thunk of a wine goblet. No talking, though.

A servant opened the door for them and even those sounds stopped. The three Pankratz siblings were all sitting at the long table staring in long distances and pulling long tables. 'And that is why I fucking hate family affairs,' Geralt thought.

"I don't think it makes Lord Pankratz happy," Ciri whispered entirely too loud and he nearly winced as the silence carried the words through the hall.

That at least startled some life into their hosts. Janina gasped indignantly and Jaskier frowned, opening the mouth to say something. It was Józefa, however, who beat him to it. "Don't mind my brother," she said with a bright smile, "he's in a terrible mood today. This _lady_ Pankratz, however, makes your presence very happy. Come sit with me, Cousin Fiona?"

Cousin Fiona. Right. They had roles to play. Ciri moved and sat down next to Józefa. She even smiled a bit.

That meant that for him there was one seat left, exactly- 'Fuck.'

"Saved you a seat," Jaskier said and pointed to the place between himself and his elder sister. The words were innocent enough, yet his voice was cold as ice.

Geralt was slow to move, cautiously looking back and forth between the stony masks that were the faces of the two older siblings. "My lady," he said to Janina as he pulled the chair back. "My lord," and sat down. He didn't know what was worse: the complete and utter ignorance of Janina or the nigh unnoticeable flare of Jaskier's nostrils. He decided that he didn't like either one very much.

He and Ciri were quickly served their food but if he had hoped that that would maybe lighten the mood or - _something_ , he was promptly corrected. Józefa tried to strike up a conversation once in a while, always promptly smothered by Janina's resolution to ignore Jaskier and Geralt and Jaskier's to return the favour. Geralt wasn't much more talkative either. 'And it isn't like Ciri's shyness helps.'

He had hoped that they would get out of it quickly. He had been wrong. There was a whole fucking feast prepared for their arrival. And they suffered through the whole ordeal in silence. 'If Ciri thought Jaskier was weird before,' he mused, 'I wonder how she would describe _this_.'

He looked pityingly at his child surprise who sat miserably across from him as if that could tell him her thoughts. 'I should probably teach her some proper swearwords beforehand, though.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who are curious, I took Castle Eltz as a large inspiration for Lettenhove, though the colouring is more like Schloss Hohentübingen. Check both of them out, they are beautiful!  
> This is also the chapter I am most unsure about until now so let me know what you think! Here's my [tumblr](https://dhwty-writes.tumblr.com/) if that's your thing and let me know if you're interested in betaing this fic!


	5. Prickly Princesses and Snapping Sisters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt and Ciri worm themselves into the routine of Lettenhove Hall and Jaskier and Janina strike a bargain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapters aren't getting any shorter, huh?  
> Thanks so much @[PersonyPepper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PersonyPepper) for betaing this fic from now on, expect much fewer comma mistakes and typos! Also, check out their works, they are amazing!  
> Enjoy!

Princess Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon did not like Jaskier. He had been- somewhat prepared for that possibility, he reckoned. She was a child, after all, and children were rather peculiar tastes when it came to their fondness for people.

He also reckoned that there should be some allowance, given that their introduction had not been conducted in the same circumstances as he had expected it to be. He would be lying if he said he _hadn't_ expected to meet her at some point, especially once the war had started. He had dreamt up a thousand different scenarios, each involving some incredibly daring rescue mission and nights of jolly laughter under the stars with lutes and campfires and songs and suchlike.

None of them had taken place in Lettenhove. In none of them had he been _bound_ to Lettenhove, with his lute under lock and key. In none of them had there been this insurmountable tension between him and Geralt— no, that was not entirely true, there had been plenty of tension in his daydreams, just of a much more pleasant type.

Well, in his defence, all of that had been before the Dragon Hunt in King Niedamir's mountains — an adventure worthy of an entire epos, the last one to be immortalised in one of his ballads. After that... truth be told, he hadn't expected to see Geralt again at all, never mind meet his child surprise.

That was, however, beside the point. The point was that he had gone to Cirilla and had knelt before her, offering up his allegiance and protections and that the girl had just stared at him. He had tried to explain his plan to her, how he would disguise her for the winter so they could continue to their mysterious destination come spring and she had just nodded gracefully, agreeing to play along. That had been, however, the extent of their whole conversation. Any attempt of him after to get to know her even a little better had been met with a very familiar kind of stoic silence.

He had then decreed that it would be better to just leave her and hope that dinner would be better. It hadn't been. To be precise, dinner had been a fucking disaster. Firstly, Geralt and Cirilla had arrived late - which would have been alright if not for his insufferable older sister who had insisted on pestering him with despicable comments about Geralt and Cirilla until he had enough. There were only so many insults he could tolerate at his table before acting on the urge to throttle Janina and he greatly preferred it not come to that point. "If you don't shut up," he had hissed at her, "you're getting your wish and I dump you off at Goldfurt for good. But don't expect to set foot into Lettenhove again afterwards."

That had been effective in so far that she had stopped talking. It had, however, also greatly contributed to the detestable atmosphere at the table. And probably led to him screwing up any chance he ever had charming the princess.

It wasn't as if he wasn't trying. He really was. He had taken her to the gardens, which had not been to her liking. He had taken her to the stables but she wasn't particularly fond of horses. Maybe even a bit scared of them. He had tried telling her exciting stories about his adventures. She was definitely scared of those.

In general, Cirilla was scared of a lot of things, not that he could blame her for it. It didn't make any of this easier, though.

It was, however, almost startlingly easy how quickly Geralt and his child surprise settled themselves into the routine of Lettenhove Hall. In the mornings, Jaskier would still be woken up by Jakub, who brought him breakfast, dressed him, and told him all that was happening in his castle, things its inhabitants thought he might miss. He dedicated his mornings to his unsuccessful attempts at befriending the princess. Then he sent her off to lunch with Józefa and Marta. His afternoons were filled with the mortifying pile of duties that came with _owning_ three villages and a couple hundreds of people, plus the never-ending complaints of his tenants.

The thought still made his stomach churn. 'One of the many reasons why I never wanted this.' He couldn't just _own_ people as if they were _objects_. Only, apparently, he very much did.

After that, there was dinner. The atmosphere did not really improve after that first night, Janina still stubbornly insisting that she would not talk to Jaskier and Jaskier returning that favour. No one was overly eager to speak to Geralt. At least Cirilla and Józefa conversed quietly. Sometimes. The evenings when Janina feigned some kind of minor ailment to dine alone were better. He suspected it was the same when his work chained him to his desk until long after sunset.

After dinner there were usually a few hours spent in the fireplace lounge next to the dining room. They were filled with more silence and Józefa and Janina doing some needlework and sometimes piquing Cirilla's interest. Jaskier was usually reading and Geralt was scowling until the viscount had the mercy to retire for the evening.

He had told Geralt— and Cirilla as well, for that matter— that they were welcome to make use of his extensive library, yet they never took him up on the offer. If out of stubbornness or genuine disinterest, he couldn't say, though he would put neither past them.

Still, a week into their stay and this new procedure felt frighteningly ordinary to Jaskier already. It was very strange altogether, that new kind of, almost forgotten, familiarity while his relationship did not improve with neither of his guests. 'What would I have given for this only two years prior?' he mused, giving up on his futile attempt to read a very long text with very small letters that kept blurring in front of his eyes. 'To get Geralt to take care of his Child Surprise and have them near me for a winter.' He had never spent the winter with Geralt before, preferring the relatively mild climate that came with Oxenfurt's proximity to the sea to the harsh cold that enveloped Kaer Morhen, the legendary keep of the Wolf School whose location had never been betrayed to him.

He sighed and closed his eyes, allowing himself for a moment to indulge in that old fantasy of his again. Him and his lute on a rug in front of a fireplace, singing of Geralt's heroics while the princess played and listened. Maybe even a smile on Geralt's face, maybe even a hand tangled in Jaskier's hair, maybe even-

A sharp knock interrupted his fruitless daydreams and he sighed in relief. There was no use following that particular train of thought now. 'If there ever was at all.' His lute was locked away in a chest in the attic, his grasp on the lyrics of his ballads dimming already, and he and Geralt didn't talk anymore. "Yes?"

He was more than a little surprised when Geralt entered and offered him the tiniest of bows and nothing else.

Jaskier leaned back in his seat and crossed his arms, waiting patiently.

Geralt stared at him for a very long time, something growing in his gaze that he would almost classify as _begging_ , yet Jaskier continued his stony resolve, merely raising an eyebrow. "Good evening," Geralt gritted out finally.

"Good evening, witcher," he responded. "Is there any particular reason why you come to my private chambers at this late hour?" He estimated that they were rapidly approaching midnight as it was pitch black outside and hunger had painfully settled in his stomach. Yet, the way to the kitchens seemed dreadfully long;, and he really did not want to walk that far, and any dish he thought of seemed downright disgusting, also there would be breakfast in a few hours anyw-

"You weren't at dinner," Geralt interrupted his racing thoughts, "or in the lounge."

He tensed up a little bit. "How astute of you to notice."

Geralt frowned. "Have you eaten at all? My lord."

He blinked in surprise. Jaskier wasn't sure what he had been expecting but certainly not... _that_. "Are you worried about me, witcher?" he tried to tease, but his voice came out uncharacteristically harsh.

"No," Geralt answered and looked so confused that it almost made Jaskier laugh. 'Such a Geralt thing to do.'

But only almost. It stung, too. Quite a lot, to be precise. 'Of course not. Geralt isn't one to worry about you.' His face hardened. "Then why are you here?"

"I wanted to talk to you."

"We are talking. Get on with it, I've got more important things to do."

He could basically hear Geralt grinding his teeth. "I wanted to ask your leave, _my lord_ , to teach your _cousin_ how to wield a sword."

"Oh?" That certainly was unexpected. "I'm not sure about that."

"Why not?"

He hummed quietly, thinking carefully about how to phrase his answer. "How's your leg?" he asked then.

The question seemed to startle Geralt. "Better, my lord," he said after a while. "Thank you for the healer."

"Better?" Jaskier confirmed. "Not healed yet?"

He frowned at him, obviously unsure what to make of that. "My leg is good enough to teach a ten-year-old what the difference between the grip and the tip is, if that's your concern. My lord."

"Good," he turned back to the document, "I have no objections in that case."

"Good." Geralt turned to leave.

When he was almost at the door, Jaskier spoke up again: "Is there anything else that needs mending, witcher?" 'Besides a heart of mine?'

"Nothing, my lord." He scoffed. "Nothing but my ego."

With Geralt's back turned towards him he allowed his lip to curl into the twisted imitation of a smile. "I'm afraid I can't help with that."

There was a tiny pause before: "My armour," Geralt said quietly. "And my silver sword."

"Fine. Good night, witcher."

"Good night." He turned and stopped at the door. "I'll bring you something to eat, my lord." This time he was almost careful closing it.

When Jaskier woke the next morning, he was nestled in his bed, bundled up in his favourite blanket with a plate of cold venison and a few slices of bread on his nightstand. 

'Weird,' he thought as he yawned and closed his eyes again. He distinctly misremembered leaving his study and getting into his bed which meant- the realisation startled Jaskier from his slumberous sunrise sentiments and he sat up fast enough to make his head spin, still not having eaten anything since the previous morning. 'Fuck,' he thought and paled, quickly taking stock of his clothes. His doublet was folded neatly across the back of his chair right next to his boots. He was still wearing his shirt and trousers, the latter of which he counted as a small blessing by Melitele herself, albeit their crumpled and - quite frankly - ruined state. He pitied whatever washerwoman would have to press them again now.

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed - a bit more slowly now, to avoid further dizziness - still trying to wrap his head around the fact that Geralt had apparently brought him food, carried him to bed, stripped him of his footwear and doublet _and_ tucked him in _without him noticing_. 'Great,' he thought and reached for the cold roast without being fully conscious of what he was doing, 'so no falling asleep in the study anymore.'

Once he had devoured the whole plate, he got up to dress himself, still in that dreadful all-black look that tradition demanded. He sighed as he buttoned up his doublet. He might not be overly fond of his father, still he owed him the courtesy of dressing in mourning for two months. 'At least it's halfway done,' he consoled himself. And afterwards, he would get to wear the delightful – and colourful - recent additions to his wardrobe, without worrying too much what kind of tragedy might befall them.

That was one of the few advantages to his new old life: he didn't have to worry about regularly ruining his clothes anymore. Still, his expenses had almost tripled somehow. It was one thing for a travelling bard to own two changes of clothing and quite another for a viscount. He wasn't quite able to fill the numerous closets in the dressing room yet, but he was getting there. 'And all of that without being married,' he thought smugly. 'Father would be so disappointed.'

It was no secret that there was no love lost between the late Alfred Pankratz and- well, anyone, basically. Especially not between him and his five children. Especially not between him and his heir. 'Rest in peace, daddy dearest,' he thought grimly as he straightened himself in front of the mirror. 'And know that the world is a better place without you.'

With that Jaskier turned and strolled out of his rooms, nearly colliding with Jakub as he dashed down the stairs. "My lord!" his servant yelped in surprise as he quickly secured the tray and the food on it. "You're, err- awake. And dressed."

"Evidently," he retorted drily. "Oh, are those roast apples? How delightful!" He picked up the bowl and a fork, digging in.

"Yes, my lord. Do you want me to deliver them to your room?"

"No, they come with me," he answered with his mouth full. "Is my witcher awake yet?"

"I believe so, my lord. I have last seen him in the armoury, looking displeased."

"No, no," Jaskier waved with his fork, "that's his default expression. Have the rest brought to my study, will you? I'll take care of the whiny white wolf."

He continued his way down the stairs more carefully, now that he was periodically shoving pieces of baked apple into his mouth. Tripping on stairs and shoving his own fork down his throat was not really a death he looked forward to.

By the point he had reached the ground floor, his bowl was empty, so he left it on the stairs before pushing the doors to the armoury open. It had always been one of his least favourite rooms in the castle, with exception of the study he now called his own. But Geralt seemed to fit right in with the rows of swords and halberds and crossbows. He whipped around and snarled. 'Ah,' Jaskier thought, 'displeased was a euphemism.' His expression grew hard. "Witcher," he greeted him.

"My lord," he answered and frowned. "You're awake early."

"Ah, yes. I was woken up by the shock of finding myself in my own bed, despite having no recollection of how I got there."

"Hm," he made. "Surely the first time. My lord."

'Oh, it's one of _those_ days.' He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "It was not. Witcher."

He frowned even harder, a feat Jaskier found quite impressive, albeit a bit worrying in regards to his health. "Should I apologise?"

' _Oh._ ' For a moment the question startled him enough for his mask to crack. 'That's new.' He wasn't sure if Geralt had _ever_ apologised to him. It rewarded him with a softer tone: "You shouldn't. It was... kind, I reckon. Though you should rather wake me next time."

"If I am able to," he grumbled. After a moment he added: "I will. My lord."

"Good." He straightened himself and strolled over to one of the chests lined along the walls. "I believe you are looking for these," he said and handed him two wooden practice swords. They were almost as heavy as real ones, though one of them was significantly smaller.

Jaskier watched as Geralt observed them, staring for quite long at the initials 'J.A.P.' carved into the pommel of the smaller one. On the other, they were already replaced by the crude carving of a flower, that certainly could be interpreted as a buttercup. "They're yours," Geralt asserted.

"Indeed they are. Is there a problem?"

"I didn't-," he began before seemingly changing his mind. His mouth shut. "No, my lord."

"Good. Go on then. I am sure Cousin Fiona will be thrilled to learn the craft from a master."

"Yes, my lord." He turned to go.

When he had already reached the doors, Jaskier called after him once more: "And witcher? As soon as anyone comes to bodily harm through your exploits, the instructions stop. Is that understood?"

"Of course. I expected nothing less, my lord." He stepped out into the sunlight and the door closed behind him.

Jaskier found himself staring at the dark wood for quite a long time. 'You didn't what, Geralt?' he asked himself, before finally tearing himself away and making his way up to his study.

Almost as soon as he shut the door behind him, he could hear the muffled sounds of two wooden swords clashing. It was an odd experience, being the one listening to it and not the one being dealt the blows. 'I could almost get used to it,' he thought as he settled down for work.

He could focus on the various letters cluttering his desk until shortly after lunch; oddly the hour when the rest of his castle sat down to eat was the most productive one as opposed to the least on all his other days. But the rather monotonous clatter of swords was somewhat distracting.

So, when the noise started up again Jaskier had to surrender far sooner than he would like. 'If I can't focus on the words,' he told himself as he cleaned up his desk as best as he could, 'my time is better spent otherwise.'

He surprised himself by being curious if not even a bit excited when he stepped out onto the gallery that overlooked the courtyard. He was almost delighted to see that now he could not only hear the instructions Geralt growled at Cirilla, but also how both of them panted and were breaking sweat. 'Would you look at that,' he thought and resisted the urge to lean on the railing and stare down at them dreamily, 'seems like even a witcher has to work to keep up with the tireless cub.'

He knew that he himself had a surplus of energy than most other human beings. These days he found himself being more bored and dissatisfied with his routine tasks than ever before. Still, from what he had seen, he doubted that even he could keep up with Cirilla. The girl asked a thousand questions an hour, always curious about the purpose behind everything she saw, talking so fast it made his head spin and constantly ran off to some place or other. He pitied whoever poor soul had been her nursemaid before - and at Queen Calanthe's court no less.

He was shaken from his thoughts when Geralt told her to stand down and wiped the sweat from his brow; he used the break to take a deep breath while Jaskier took advantage of the possibility to rake his eyes over a sweaty witcher, whose hair hung in loose strands from his braid without any kind of danger or being forced to learn how to wield a blade himself.

In the seventeen years of their acquaintance Geralt had tried to teach him how to fight more than once, with daggers and knives and even a crossbow; not that he'd had any more luck than his fencing teacher in the previous eight years. Jaskier had learned how to defend himself with a knife eventually, but he would never make a great swordsman - though certainly not for lack of trying.

The door to the gallery opened and it was all he could do not to gape in surprise when Janina stepped outside and walked to his side. "Brother," she greeted him coldly.

"Sister," he answered and took back to staring at the scene unfolding below him. Geralt was teaching Cirilla a simple lunge that would surely be accompanied by a redirecting stroke once she had the footwork down. He was quite familiar with it, one of the only steps he actually remembered.

For a while that was how it went, Geralt correcting Cirilla and, in an unexpected turn of events, Jaskier scowled instead of pouting for once. That, he left to his sister: "It is not proper," Janina said.

"This old tune again." He rolled his eyes. "How many times, sister, the witcher stays for the winter. He will leave as soon as the snow thaws."

" _It is not proper_ ," she repeated insistently, "that he spends so much time with our _cousin_."

He arched an eyebrow.

"She's a little girl, Julian. And he's drilling her like a soldier's boy. It is not proper for a girl to learn how to fight. She should sew and sing instead."

"Darling sister, if I have learned anything in two decades on the road it is never to underestimate a determined lady. No man with a sword is half as scary as any warrior woman I have met." Quietly he thought: 'Most men with two swords are not half as scary as any women armed with nothing but magic.'

"Well, I do not know who you have met," she quipped, "or who you fancy her to be. She is just a normal girl, Julian, no mage, no witch, no... Calanthe of Cintra or whoever you might be thinking of."

He bit his lip to hide his smile. 'Of only you knew, darling Janka. If only you knew...'

She took his silence as a sign to continue: "You should forbid it."

Jaskier frowned. "I will not," he said with determination. "I know you don't believe it, but this war is not done, yet. And as long as it isn't, everyone would benefit from knowing how to swing a sword."

"Well, maybe you should get down into the court as well, then. We all know that that blade is a useless weight on you."

"Maybe I just might," he answered. "The training will continue so long as no bodily harm comes to her. Feel free, however, to interest her for the womanly arts you hold in such high regard. If you manage to pry her from the witcher's side with sweet words alone, I won't say a thing."

"Maybe I will," his sister snapped. "Just you wait."

He laughed heartily. "Dear sister, you will never woo Fiona before I do. But you are welcome to try."

Her eyes narrowed to slits. "You're on."

"Oh!" His eyes sparkled. "Fun. If I manage to get in her good graces before you, I will hear no word of complaint about witchers anymore."

She crossed her arms. "And if I win?"

"I'll bring a bard for the whole winter."

She scrunched her nose as she contemplated it. "No."

"No?"

"If I win, _you_ will sing us songs for the winter."

He scoffed. "That's hardly a punishment," he said as jovially as he could. 'It is,' he thought.

A wicked grin spread on Janina's face. "But only those written by Valdo Marx."

Jaskier paled and gasped, undignified. Whatever horrible punishment he might have expected of her, that certainly went too far. "You wouldn't dare- My own flesh and blood!"

"What? Scared to lose, Julek?"

He frowned. "Of course not." As if he ever was one to back down from a challenge.

Janina nodded and he watched in horror as she spat in her hand and offered it to him.

"Gross," Jaskier declared and gagged.

His older sister rolled her eyes. "You're a boy. As if you haven't done it before. Deal?"

He scrunched his nose. 'Of course, I have done it before, you little pest- oh, bugger this!' He spat in his own hand and shook hers. "Deal."

She smirked and pulled him close. "I'll destroy you," she whispered into his ear.

Jaskier laughed, even though the tone made his blood freeze in his veins. "I'm looking forward to it."

The little bet he had with his sister had certainly changed the situation with Cirilla dramatically. While there had been at least some kind of personal interest for him to get to know the girl better beforehand, Jaskier was now sure that he could not accept defeat. Or rather, he would not be singing Valdo Marx's mediocre ballads throughout the entire winter, thank you very much.

Naturally, he had to reinforce his efforts. He tried sneaking her sweets next - which she didn't like, unfortunately - and showing her the secret places in Lettenhove Hall after - she wasn't interested. He tried dresses and dolls, stories and songs, all to no avail. The more time passed, the more his conversations with Cirilla resembled some with a miniature Geralt, who just grunted and swore a lot, preferably at him.

Slowly but surely, he was losing his patience. There was a lot on the line for him now, after all. His only solace was that Janina wasn't making any progress either. If anything, she made negative progress - the little princess couldn't stand being in her presence and Jaskier soon discovered that he at least was being spared the worst of her newly acquired cuss words.

Still, he was very close to giving in and just bribing _Geralt_ instead of Cirilla - maybe that would amount to something. He quickly pushed the thought away. 'I'm not _that_ desperate,' he decided, 'yet.'

There were two other people in his home, after all, who were able to hold somewhat normal conversations with the girl. He would not give in before trying both of them first.

Unfortunately for him, Marta was entirely unhelpful. She only told him to "be kind to the girl", as if he hadn't thought of that himself.

That meant, he was one person short of asking Geralt himself. Jaskier winced and contemplated for one moment to just go to the man himself directly. It would most certainly leave him a richer man than bribing his sister. 

On the other hand, he was still resolved to keep his interactions with Geralt to a minimum. 'Until he redeems himself,' he kept telling himself. How the witcher should accomplish that deed was a mystery even to him. 'He's a smart man,' he thought, 'he'll figure something out.'

That, however, led to Jaskier struggling up the stairwell in the North Wing laden with a heavy tray of all kinds of baked goods and promises to boot. 

"Sister dearest," Jaskier threw the doors open and placed his precious gifts on the table in front of her. He himself flopped down on the couch next to Józefa.

She spared him one calculating glance, then turned back to her needlework. "No."

"No?" He pouted. "You haven't even heard what I have to say!"

"I know that face. It means trouble."

He snorted. "We're adults, Józia, how much trouble can it be?"

She raised her eyebrows in answer and Jaskier got up and sighed. "Yeah, right," he amended. "I still need your help."

"Is it about the stupid bet?"

"I want to inform you that it is not stupid at all. But as a matter of fact, yes, it is about the bet."

"Then, no."

"Valdo Marx, Józefa, you can't do that to me!"

There was the tiniest sliver of a smile dancing around her lips. "You should have thought about that sooner." His cruel sister was enjoying this.

"I brought you your favourites," he tried again.

Józefa sighed and put the embroidery down in her lap. "And let me guess, Julek, you'll buy me not one but three new dresses for the spring and take me to Oxenfurt and Tretogor as well or any other significant city or court I'd like to see."

He winced. 'Am I that predictable?' Still, he was not ready to give up just yet: "I'll also buy three barrels of Toussaint red."

She scowled. "Two Toussaint red," she answered, "and one Beauclair white."

Jaskier's face lit up. "Deal!"

"Great Melitele," Józefa laughed heartily and shook her head, "you survived twenty years out there being that gullible?"

"I had a witcher to protect me."

"And now you try to get his trust back by spoiling his Child Surprise?"

Jaskier gaped, not really sure how to respond. "I- she-" He had thought of that eventuality of course, there was no way that he could have kept Cirilla's identity hidden for the entire winter. But he had expected another month at least, not- "She's not- how?"

Józefa laughed again and gently patted his cheek. "You're so cute when you're embarrassed. I suspected it from the start but my guess was confirmed, when 'Fiona' told me her little secret. Don't worry, though, Janina knows nothing about it. I think we have at least two or three weeks to craft some believable lie she will fall for."

He stupidly opened and closed his mouth like a fish, still not sure what to respond. His sister knew Cirilla's true identity. Which meant- "Do you also know why it has to be a secret?"

"No," she answered softly, "but I trust you on that one. I will not pry."

He nodded slowly, trying to process the revelation. "You still won't tell me how you did it?" he asked after a while. "Earn her trust?"

"No, I don't think so."

Jaskier sighed and got up. "For the record, it is the witcher who needs to get my trust back. Not the other way round.” No response. “Good night, then." There was nothing he could do about that. 

"It is very easy, actually," he stopped in his tracks when his sister's voice reached him. "You are just too blind to see it. Good night, Julek."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave a comment to tell me what you think or hop over to my [tumblr](https://dhwty-writes.tumblr.com/) if you like.


	6. A Broken Princess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ciri does neither trust nor like Jaskier, so Geralt has to try and talk with his old friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is angsty like... all over. That was not the plan. I regret nothing.  
> Thanks @[PersonyPepper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PersonyPepper) for betaing this chapter, too.

He would lie if he said he wasn't relieved that Jaskier had agreed to him training Ciri. The week before had been nothing short of torture, and Geralt was slowly going mad without any task to set his mind upon. And it wasn't even like the winters in Kaer Morhen where there was always something to fix, always someone to train with, always some creature to hunt. The ancient ruin was a wild place with more than enough opportunities to keep a witcher occupied.

Lettenhove Hall was none of that. It was a well-kept castle with enough servants to see to every minor inconvenience. There were no monsters either and while the guards were friendly enough, they didn't seem to look forward to training with him.

He had found out that there were twenty of them in total, quite a lot for a castle as small as Lettenhove. Besides the occasional piercing glare, though, their interactions were non-existent. He could leave the castle, he had discovered, without so much as a blink from the garrison. 'At least I am no prisoner,' he remembered thinking relieved; but there wasn't really anywhere to  _ go _ . He had ventured out a few times to explore Jaskier's lands but that had become boring quickly enough. Only once he had been reminded not to stray too far, as the viscount expected him for dinner in just an hour. Generally speaking, Geralt was fine with that. Only bored.

He was in the stables a lot, enjoying the quiet company of the horses and Wiktor. Sometimes the old equerry even asked him to take one of the noble horses for a ride, if the Pankratz siblings neglected them for too long.

Józefa still came by almost every day, trying to seduce him, but he could tell that she wasn't really trying anymore. He almost hoped she would. Instead their conversations had turned to playful banter from her part that he answered with silence, grunts and the occasional barbed remark. It might have been fun if it didn't emphasise the fetterless behaviour he and Jaskier had shared. Being treated quite similarly by his sister, who resembled the bard in everything but looks, made their estranged relationship all the more painful.

So, Geralt was glad that he could train Ciri now. He finally had something to  _ do _ again, although that had not been his plan. He had hoped that Vesemir could instruct her, and that his brothers would help. That would have been nice. He also already feared the tongue-lashing that awaited him once Vesemir saw all the bad habits Ciri learned from him. It didn’t matter how many years passed since he had left Vesemir’s care and Kaer for good, his old teacher always found things to critique him for.

Now that he had a student for himself, he began to understand it. He had permission to chase her across the courtyard and snap at her for her sloppy poses and weak slashes for the entire morning, from breakfast until lunch — Jaskier had told him in no uncertain terms that he would have no repetition of that first day, though he didn't mention why. Geralt had suspicions, mainly having to do with the fact that Jaskier was very irritated when Geralt berated Ciri harshly. And that he was much more amenable when they didn't cross blades quite as often, reducing the noise to a minimum.

Geralt was fairly happy with standing at the sidelines, although he caught himself embarrassingly often mimicking Vesemir's poses. And his comments. And even his damned tone, Melitele's tits.

To avoid that, he had taken to tracing the buttercup carved into the pommel of his sword, wondering for how long Jaskier had gone by that ridiculous name. He didn’t know when he had started thinking of it as his sword. He also wasn't sure which of the two new habits was worse.

It was his third day of training Ciri. Shortly after lunch, from which Jaskier remained absent, Geralt was just changing into what had deemed his stable clothes when he heard some kind of noise next door.

Geralt sighed and quickly pulled the shirt over his head before knocking on Ciri's door.

"Fuck off," he heard her swear and he winced. The cuss words had been a bad idea; she was taking too much after him already.

"Ci- Fiona, it's me. You better be dressed, ‘cause I'm coming in." He turned the doorknob and cursed quietly when he found it locked. "Open up!" he demanded.

"I don't want to," she answered.

"You're supposed to go riding with Lord Julian."

"I don't want to!"

"He's even gifted you a new riding cloak-"

"I don't want it!" Ciri shouted. "I don't want any of it! Leave me alone."

Geralt sighed heavily and leaned his forehead against the door. 'What the fuck was I thinking?' he asked himself not for the first — and surely not the last time. He had  _ just _ seen what disaster the law of surprise brought, why the  _ fuck _ had he claimed it? From the Lioness of Cintra's son-in-law no less. 'If there ever was going to be a bratty child,' he thought glumly, 'it was  _ destined _ to be this one.'

He took a deep breath and told himself: 'Remember Kaer Morhen. At least it's not snot-nosed Lambert.' That made him feel a bit better.

After a few moments he tried again: "Do you want to... talk about it?" Gods, what was this child  _ doing _ to him? 'I really love you, Ciri. You better fucking appreciate it.'

There was a quiet sniffle. "You don't  _ do _ ‘talking’."

"Hmmm," he made. "Not if I can avoid it. Gotta take care of my pup, though. Cub." There was a beat of silence. "I can go get somebody else-" Before he could finish that sentence, the door opened and the air was punched out of his lungs as Ciri dove in for a hug. "There," he said, awkwardly patting her back, "that's better." He looked around for passing servants and when he heard footsteps, he simply picked her up and walked over to her bed after closing the door behind him.

Geralt gently cradled his child surprise in his arms and held her while she cried. She hadn't cried for quite some time now, not since their arrival in Lettenhove, but now the scent of salt-sadness and onion-grief was overwhelming.

He had never felt so helpless as when the concoction had first startled him awake, not three days after finding her. Ciri had just laid on her side, quietly crying into her bedroll and Geralt had had no idea what to do. His first instinct had been to go back to sleep and leave her her privacy but then — and he firmly believed it to be an accident — she had weakly croaked: " _ Help- Grandmother-  _ Geralt _ -! _ " He had never been on his feet faster, scrambling to her side, afraid to get too close, afraid to startle her, afraid to hold her. " _ What can I do? _ " he had pleaded. " _ Tell me, what can I do? _ " And then, to his never-ending surprise, she had crawled into his arms — ' _ No, that's wrong, children  _ hate _ witchers. _ ' — and hugged him close, drenching his shirt with her tears.

Once, after, he had asked her if she was still scared of their pursuers. There had been only one answer: " _ I'm not scared anymore. You're scarier than all my nightmares. _ " That had been the day Geralt had discovered that he was a coward. He never dared ask why she didn't reek of fear, then.

He had never gotten better at comforting the little cub since that first night. Somehow, she still relaxed faster every time. 'That's wrong,' his traitorous head snarled, 'she shouldn't. No child should feel safe with a witcher close.' Only, this one did. She had never smelt of fear, not after she first set eyes on him. 'Like Jaskier.' And like Jaskier she had wormed her way into his heart way too fast.

After a while the crying stopped. "Are you alright, little cub?" he whispered.

Ciri looked up at him, tears drying on her cheek. "Geralt... do we have to stay here?"

Something in his chest tightened. 'Oh no,' he thought. "We're safe here," he said slowly. "Lord Julian will protect us. Until the snow thaws."

"Hmm," she made. Another bad habit she got from him and he felt his knees grow weak. 'What am I supposed to do when she wants to leave? I can't- We can't- We won't make it.'

"You can trust him," he tried again. "He-" He wanted to say: 'He would give his life for ours.' But then he realised that he didn't know if that was true anymore. "He is a man of his word," he said instead.

"I think he doesn't like me," she confessed quietly.

"Now that's just untrue," Geralt frowned. "Lord Julian adores you. And he's done a lot of nice things for you."

She shook her head adamantly. "I think he doesn't like me because I came here with you. He doesn't like you."

'Oh.' His heart clenched painfully. She was smarter than it was any good for her. He should have known that he couldn't keep it from her. "That's true," he admitted. "At the moment. He'll come around. Eventually."

"Why?" she asked earnestly. "I thought you were friends."

"I-" he faltered. How could he even begin to describe what they were? What they had been? 'What we are now.' He hung his head in shame. "We were. I think. And I've done a bad thing. That I know."

"And he's angry?" Ciri's eyes were blown wide.

"Very," Geralt confessed quietly, "and rightfully so."

"What did you do?" There was no reproach in her voice, no accusation. Only... compassion. Somehow that made him feel even worse.

"It's complicated."

"Did you cheat at knucklebones?"

That almost made him laugh. "No. Worse."

"Did you cheat at Gwent?"

"No, Ciri-"

She gasped. "Did you cheat on  _ him _ ?"

"I'm not- we're not-" He sighed. "That's not it either."

"What could be worse than  _ that _ ?"

"I... I wasn't very nice to him. For a long time. I said mean things. And I yelled at him."

Ciri frowned. "I don't understand. My grandparents did that all the time!"

"Yeah, me too, but- it was different with... with us. I hurt him. I don't think I can explain."

"Can't you try?" she pleaded.

"I  _ am _ trying, Ciri. I'm sorry." Geralt sighed quietly. "I'll talk to him. Alright?"

"Good." She smiled at him, all child-like and innocent and naive. 'She is all of that,' he reminded himself. "I can hold you when you cry, too, you know,” she said solemnly. “You can't sit in my lap but I can hug you. My arms can fit around your chest, look!” She embraced him to prove it. “If you want to, that is."

There was a thick lump in his throat he didn't know what to do with. "I- thanks. That's very nice." He swallowed, hoping it would make the lump go away. It didn't. "Why uh- why don't you go find Marta to tell her you won't go riding with Lord Julian?"

She ducked her head. "Can you do that? Please? I'd rather be alone for a while." He nodded. That was better. That, at least, he could understand.

"Yeah, sure." Somehow the lump got even worse. "I'll- I'll be in the stables if you need me. I'll see you… later." Reluctantly he got up and placed her on the bed. She took a book from her nightstand — where had she gotten that from? — and smiled at him encouragingly before he closed the door.

It was surprisingly hard to leave her behind to hunt down Marta. Thrice he turned around to go back to her, to make sure that she  _ really _ was okay and thrice he reminded himself that she would tell him if there was something he could do.

It was in the well house that he stumbled upon Marta, the poor woman in evident distress. "Witcher!" she said and he noted that the smell of fear had gotten less than last time. "I am looking for his Lordship's cousin, have you seen her?"

"She won't be able to go ride with him," he told her. "She is- indisposed."

"Oh." She faltered. "Is she quite alright?"

"I believe so. She just isn't in the mood for company."

"Oh," the serving girl said again. "Then, uh-" The scent of fear flared up again. "I guess I'll better tell his lordship."

"Hm," Geralt made. He could do that just as well. Get the whole conversation over with. Then again, he should probably go and- sort out all about the sorry state he was in. A few hours with the horses should do the trick. He would go talk to Jaskier later.

He shouldered past Marta and quickly slipped into the stables, relieved that Jaskier was nowhere to be seen. He needed some time to himself, too. 

The steady work of brushing down the horses granted him exactly that. It was easy for him to slip into an almost meditative state of mind, ignoring the busy stable hands walking about, going after their own tasks.

That was also why he didn't respond to the calls until a hand dug rather harshly into his shoulder. "Witcher," Janina Pankratz hissed, "I am talking to you."

He turned towards her slowly, immediately overwhelmed with the sour stench of fear and hatred like the smell of infected wounds. "My lady? I was caught up in my thoughts."

She snorted. "I could see that plainly."

He looked at her, waiting for her to continue. When she didn't, he asked: "Why are you here, my lady?" He hadn't seen her in the stables yet, and if he was honest, he hadn't thought she would go inside. No matter how well they mucked out the boxes, the place always seemed a bit too dirty for a lady as she was.

"I wanted to talk to you."

'Gods above, anything but that.' He swallowed the sour grimace down. "About what?"

"My lady."

"Excuse me?"

She pursed her lips. "My brother might let your lack of manners slide, but I won't. You will address me correctly."

He ground his teeth. "Sure. About what, my lady?"

"Gods, can't you even form whole sentences?" she sighed.

"I could," he answered. "But I won't. My lady."

Janina Pankratz sneered and for a moment he thought she was about to raise her hand at him. But then, she took a deep breath and said with a surprisingly calm voice: "Our cousin you delivered to our gates. You get along well with her."

"Yes, I do. My lady."

"How?"

His eyebrows twitched upwards. 'You don't have time for a tale nearly as long,  _ my lady _ ,' he thought. 'Nor do you care enough for it.' But even he knew he couldn't say that. So instead he answered: "I am kind to her, my lady. I do not laugh, nor scowl, nor raise my voice at her. I tell her jokes and stories and smile when she is funny. I listen to her." 'I hold her when she cries.' He didn't dare to say that. "That is all, I think. My lady."

She wrinkled her nose and for a moment it was as if he was looking at Jaskier's mirror image. 'If she smiled,' he caught himself thinking, 'they could be mistaken for twins.' But then again, Jaskier didn't smile either, at the moment. "That is quite a lot," she replied.

'That is nothing,' he thought. "I reckoned you wanted a true answer, my lady."

"Now, I do not have nearly enough time for that," she answered. "I need you to get her to like me. Starting with that she won't swear at me any longer."

He couldn't keep from snorting. "And why would I do that? My lady."

"Because else, I will ensure that your miserable life will be even more miserable from now on."

"His Lordship won't like that."

"His Lordship won't know that."

'Are you sure about that?' he thought and raised an eyebrow. "What have I even done to you? You have despised me from the moment I stepped over the threshold of Ja- Lord Julian's castle."

He felt a tiny bit of satisfaction when he saw her face twist into an offended grimace at the mention of Jaskier's claim over the fortress. "Maybe so," she responded, "the crimes your kind has committed against me and mine are more heinous than any human could imagine." She gave him an once over. "Not too heinous for you, tough, I reckon."

'Ah. That old song again.' He ducked his head obediently. "If you say so, my lady."

"Oh, so you do know respect. You really should teach that girl you have brought with you some," she said coldly, "Before Lord Pankratz will beat it into her."

Geralt paled. "He wouldn't-"

"He would. He knows the effectiveness of that particular treatment quite well himself, after all." She turned on her heel and left the stables the same moment he felt the brush crack and splinter in his hand.

Geralt had quite enough, he decided, as he threw the useless brush away and rushed out of the stables and up to his rooms to get his sword. He needed to put its edge to...  _ something _ .

Followed only by the curious looks of the guardsmen, Geralt strode out of the main gates, his scabbard slung loosely over his shoulder. He left the road quickly enough, just fleeing from that wretched castle with that wretched inhabitants and that wretched atmosphere.

Just out of earshot, he pulled the steel sword free and swung it against an innocent tree with such a force that the whole trunk quivered. He didn't even know what  _ exactly _ had managed to work him into such a rage, but at that moment he didn't particularly care. He just was glad that he had found an opponent who would neither complain nor break while he hacked away at it.

He didn't know how long he had been doing that before he was interrupted: "Ho, witcher!" There was the sound of a horse coming to a halt. "Shouldn't you rather use an axe for that?"

Geralt grunted and twirled around, his steel sword pointed at the poor soul that had picked that unfortunate moment to come his way. The guard on the other end seemed unimpressed and simply pressed the blade away. "What is it? Do you regret talking me into letting you in already?"

He blinked stupidly, before lowering the weapon. Of course, he knew the man. It was the guard who had opened the gates to them. Geralt grunted: "Immensely."

"And here I thought you— what was it you said? — 'a friend of his lordship's son'? Has your 'friend' scorned you?"

"We're not- on good terms at the moment."

The guard laughed. "Yeah, we are aware. You're quite the talk of the castle. But you've already been that before arriving." He shrugged. "Never seen Master Julian quite like this before."

"Me neither."

"Apologies. I have forgotten that you've known him longer than I do. So." He clapped his hands. "What has the little brat done now?"

Geralt stared in surprise, taking in the man standing before him. He wouldn't have judged him much older than Jaskier himself but then again, he had never been good at judging the age of humans. "Wasn't him," he snapped.

"Ah." A wicked grin spread on his face. "Lady Janina."

Geralt hummed his assent, wondering how he'd known.

"Don't worry," the guard said gleefully, "we've all been there before. She's not half as bad once you get to know her."

He snorted. 'I doubt that anyone really 'knows' her.'

"There's nothing you can do about it for now. Just take it and suck it up."

Geralt nodded. He knew how to do that.

"I'm Marin by the way." He stuck his hand out and Geralt wracked his brain, trying to remember where he had heard that name before.

"Geralt." He took the offered hand.

"Let me know if you ever want to swing your sword at something livelier than a trunk. I'd love to have fought a witcher once in my life."

The snort was out of his mouth before he could stop himself. "I'd wipe the floor with you."

"Bold words for a man who could barely stand upright a week ago," he teased. "Come back to the castle with me and we'll see about that?"

Geralt looked back at the tree he had massacred. Fighting a human guard was no replacement for his brothers in Kaer Morhen but at least he would put up a fight. He shrugged and sheathed his sword, turning to walk back to the castle with him. To his surprise, Marin fell in step beside him instead of mounting his horse again.

"How did you even find me?" Geralt asked.

"Poacher in the area," he answered. "Lord Pankratz asked me to track him down."

He grunted.

"Don't worry, Geralt. There won't be any consequences, most likely. Well, besides a stern talking to and the lad being sent home with a bag full of food for his family." He shrugged. "His Lordship's got a soft heart. Softer than most."

"Too soft," Geralt growled before he could stop himself.

The guardsman shrugged. "Probably. You're good with horses, yeah?" he asked.

Geralt hummed. "Not half bad, I guess."

"You must be. Wiktor won't let anyone ride their majesties. Not even his second in command. I guess I'll have to ask his Lordship for a new one in spring. This beauty won't make it much longer."

"Old?" he asked, trying to mask his surprise. With the fear Marta seemed to possess of her lord, he hadn't expected Jaskier's guards to be nearly as comfortable asking for something as expensive as a horse. On the other hand, most of the people in Lettenhove seemed to regard Jaskier with polite respect — not the blind fear that reigned almost everywhere else.

"And weary," Marin added. "Got him almost twenty years ago, when I joined Lord Alfred's guard, may he rest in peace."

"You've always been here?"

"Pretty much," he shrugged. "I was born up in the Hall, son of a kitchen wench and Old Lord Julian, his Lordship’s grandfather that is, if the rumours are true. And the rumours are always true when it comes to the bedwarmers of the Lord." He laughed. "Well, mostly."

Geralt shot him a look. He wasn't actually interested, he told himself, just polite.

Thankfully, Marin didn’t need much encouragement: "We expected half the personnel to end up in Lord Julian's bed within a moon's turn of his arrival - he’s got quite a reputation, after all. But he leaves the girls and boys alone. Good lad.” There was a slight pause before he continued: “And, well..." He grinned sheepishly. "I think we all lost a fair share of money with your arrival. Borys, the idiot, said you'd fuck him right then and there-"

Geralt felt his ears grow hot and quickly snapped: "We're not like that!" He was definitely not comfortable discussing- any of this, really, with  _ anyone _ . The thought that there were not-so-secret discussions about them-

"Really?" The look of surprise on Marin’s face was genuine. "Could've fooled me. Well, I've got my bet still running, I said-"

"Marin..." he growled menacingly.

"Right," the guard answered and the tiniest smell of fear wavered off him. "Taking the hint..." They stepped through the gates and he handed the reins of his horse to a stable boy.

"Welcome back, captain," one of the other guards greeted him. 'Ah,' Geralt thought. 'Fuck.' "Any luck with the poacher?"

"Not yet, Borys" Marin answered and turned to Geralt. "So, about that spar..."

He shook his head. "Gotta talk to Lord Julian before," he answered. "Any idea where to find him?"

The captain of the guard made a gesture that Geralt roughly interpreted as 'fuck if I know' and shrugged. "His study?"

His study was usually a good place to start looking for Jaskier. He was there, mostly — no matter what time of day it was. It was quite worrying, if he was honest, how late the viscount still worked at times. And work he had to, for Geralt was now certain that no one in Lettenhove Hall shared his bed.

That was one of the many things that had changed since Geralt's return. Jaskier's unmistakable smell — as well as his apparent new-found aversion to frequently changing bedfellows. As long as Geralt had known him, the bard had smelt of honey-sweet happiness and cinnamon arousal and not much else. He hadn't caught a single whiff of that yet at his home.

When he stepped out onto the courtyard again, it was Borys who called to him: "Witcher! His Lordship's on the rampart if you're looking for him. Doesn't want to be disturbed, though."

Geralt ignored that council — he had made Ciri a promise after all and climbed the walls, taking two steps at a time. No one tried to stop him.

It took him a while to walk around the battlements, but he found Jaskier eventually on the west side facing the setting sun. He sat between two merlons and the sight of him dangling one leg over the side made Geralt's heart skip a beat and his feet tingle, his body burning with the pressing need to pull him away from the edge. But then the air carried over Jaskier's scent and for a moment the overwhelming scent of honey was like a punch in the gut.

Geralt almost turned around to leave Jaskier to his moment of bliss — he knew that there were not nearly enough of those in the viscount's life at the moment. The thought alone hurt much worse than any wound he had ever been dealt. Jaskier, the ever-laughing bard, who knew more ways to make Geralt smile than anyone else combined, who had spent hours pestering him for just a little bit of relaxation (not happiness, that would be too much to ask), who never failed to make anyone laugh until their sides hurt, whose smile was like sunshine on a rainy day —  _ his bard Jaskier _ , had forgotten how to be happy. Who was he to destroy that precious moment of contentment?

'I promised it,' he reminded himself again and moved forward. He made sure to make the heels of his new boots clack on the floor (they had just appeared in his room one morning, the perfect size and fit as he preferred it, without explanation, and Jaskier had been absent for the entire day) to announce his presence.

"My lord," he greeted him, "is there room for one more?"

The effect of his words — his presence — was instant. Jaskier didn't even have to look at him, in the blink of an eye all the honey was washed away, instead replaced by salt and bitterness. 'The taste of tears and willow bark.' Jaskier opened his eyes, and for a moment, he thought there were tears on his cheeks. 'Please, no, Melitele have mercy. I can't go through this again today.' But then, his not-friend made an inviting gesture and the glistening in his eyes grew lesser. 

Geralt leaned against the merlon facing him, observing Jaskier’s placid expression. "I see you are enjoying the quiet, my lord," he said after a while. "I never thought I'd see the day."

"I'm not quite sure if I would call it enjoying, witcher." He closed his eyes again and shivered visibly when a gust of wind blew over the wall. 'He hasn't even brought a cloak,' Geralt noticed, vowing to bring a blanket the next time. "But I have to admit it has a certain crude charm. Just like the woods. I have grown fond of the wild it seems."

"And yet you have exchanged it for a cozy castle."

"I was under the impression the wild did not return my affection." The bitter taste of willow bark-pain grew stronger.

Geralt grunted to hide the anguish that flashed through his body. 'I never wanted to,' he thought, foolishly wishing for Jaskier to be able to read his thoughts again.

"Talk to me, witcher," Jaskier commanded. "I fear the quiet has lost its appeal."

"About what?"

Jaskier waved his hand dismissively. "Think of something. A story, perhaps. What did you do today?"

"Trained your cousin," he answered dutifully, "Been to the stables. Been threatened by your sister. Ciri as well. Your new horse is a bit slow, my lord."

“Oh, she will regret that…” he murmured. Then, after a while he said: "You have ridden Pegasus?" Jaskier cracked one eye open. "Wiktor won't let me go near him!" The indignation in his voice made Geralt sigh a breath of relief. He was always glad to see the remnants of the person he had known for so long under the stoic facade of the viscount.

"Well, you can ruin a new horse if you don't know what you're doing."

He opened his other eye, too. "Are you saying I am a bad rider?"

'I know you aren't.' Jaskier was a frequent face in the stables, either to sneak the horses too many treats while the stable boys stood uncomfortably to the side, unsure if they could reprimand their lord for missteps that would earn them a good beating from Wiktor, or to borrow one of the horses. He knew that Jaskier didn't have any real preferences besides always shunning his father's steed, Titan. He also knew that he liked to ride fast. And Geralt knew that his heart skipped a beat whenever he saw Jaskier leap into the saddle and speed out of the gates. He was, however, also fairly certain that Jaskier had no idea what to do with Pegasus while he was not broken to the bridle yet. "I am saying that you need to know how to train a yearling to ride a yearling."

"And you know how to do that?"

"Do you think horses just come trained not to fear most monsters and to follow a whistle already?"

Jaskier nodded. "Colour me impressed, witcher. Who would have thought a liar as atrocious as yourself could keep such a secret from the man who followed his every step for over half of his life?"

Geralt grunted, fully aware of the not-so-hidden reproach in his words.

"Use your words, witcher." 

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "I'm not sure if that's an insult or a compliment."

Jaskier sighed heavily and the scent of sadness grew so thick Geralt thought he must choke. "Neither am I..."

Once Geralt had collected himself, he asked casually: "How's your cousin, my lord?"

Jaskier very nearly pouted. "She doesn't like me."

He snorted. "Funny. She's saying the same about you."

"What am I doing wrong?" He frowned. "She's a very frightened child, yet you and Józefa get to talk to her."

Geralt smiled softly. "Do you want my honest advice?"

"In this case, I fear I am in desperate need of it."

"Just be yourself. She likes... nice things. I thought you might bond over that."

"I tried that. But whatever I do, she is not overly impressed."

"Hm," he made.

Jaskier didn't answer anything for a while. But what he said then, made Geralt very nearly lose his footing and make him tumble over the battlements: "She doesn't like me because she thinks I don't like you." The viscount turned his face towards him. "Isn't that right?"

"Hmm," Geralt made. 'That is pretty spot on,' he thought. "When did you become so good at reading people?"

"Long before I met you." Jaskier looked over his lands again. "You were the only person I was ever wrong about."

"How so, my lord?"

"From the moment I saw you, I thought you to be incapable of hurting anyone wilfully." A sad smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Never have I regretted a misconception more in my entire life."

Geralt swallowed around the thick lump forming in his throat, unsure what to say or if Jaskier was even waiting for a response.

Evidently, he was, for he sighed a short moment after and got to his feet. "Good night, witcher," he whispered before vanishing down the stairs.

"Good night, my lord," he echoed into the lonely evening. What on earth was he supposed to do with  _ that _ ?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to shout at me in the comments or over at my [tumblr](https://dhwty-writes.tumblr.com/) :)


	7. Stories, Smiles, and Secrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The poacher is found and Jaskier does what he does best: telling stories.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I have been informed that the last chapter was sad. I'm sorry (I'm not). As compensation there is- uh... 'checks notes* fluff? It's that what you call it? Yes, there's fluff in this chapter!  
> Enjoy!  
> Thanks @[PersonyPepper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PersonyPepper/pseuds/PersonyPepper) for betaing this chapter!

Jaskier almost fell out of his bed when the doors burst open without any warning. "Wha's happenin'?" he slurred, trying to regain his balance as well as his dignity.

"I have come to tell you, brother," Janina announced and cruelly ripped the curtains open to reveal bright sunlight, "that Cousin Fiona and I have just led a  _ delightful _ conversation over the breakfast table. While you were," she raked her eyes over him and wrinkled her nose in disgust, "still sleeping, great gods above and below, the sun rose half an hour ago!" 

He suppressed a groan and swung his naked legs over the edge of his bed, ignoring Janina's shriek: "Good  _ gods _ , I did  _ not _ need to see that."

He rolled his eyes at her and dragged himself to a standing position. "Be glad I'm wearing a shirt at all," he grumbled, not even attempting to smooth out his appearance. There was no way he'd be able to match Janina's impeccable countenance in these early hours. "From the top," he demanded as he pulled on a dark green silk robe, one of his most prized possessions, "you had  _ what _ with the girl?"

"A conversation," she said smugly and sat down on the chair he normally deposited his dirty laundry on. 'Serves her right,' he thought smugly. "Ten whole minutes."

"That's impressive." Were it any other hour, he would be howling with laughter. "You do realise that I had plenty of those, right?"

"She didn't say a single swear word."

He raised his eyebrows. "That's not really what I call 'in her good graces'," he grumbled, unwilling to admit that it was far more than he had to show for it.

"It's  _ progress _ ," Janina insisted stubbornly.

"Well, congratulations to you, dear sister." He winced. "Coax a smile out of her next and you have won." Jaskier clamped his mouth shut. 'Why the fuck did I say that?' he asked himself, 'Why the fuck don't I ever think before I talk?'

The smile on Janina's face told him that she had hoped for an outcome like that. "I'll hold you to your word," she purred and spun to leave.

"Fuck," he whispered, his brain working hard to catch up with what was going on. She was already out the door when he finally got his mouth to work again: "Janina!"

She peered back into his room. "Yes?" When she was batting her eyelashes like that, she looked almost adorable.

"Don't you dare threaten my witcher again," he hissed. "Or Fiona, for that matter."

"I-"

"No, Janina," he interrupted her harshly, "one misspoken word and never seeing the inside of this castle will be the least of your worries." He stood, throwing all he had picked up on by observing Geralt into looking as menacing as possible. "Never forget, sister, in here our power might match but you don't want to face me out there. A word from me and you can forget about your precious reputation. Is that understood?"

It was impressive how she took it all with a straight face. "Quite, my lord," she answered coldly, the slightest quiver in her voice betraying what went on inside her head. "May I go, Lord Pankratz?"

"You may."

She spared him a long calculating glance. "Just so you know it," she whispered, "you are turning into father. You even look like him."

Jaskier was glad that the slam of the door drowned out his shocked gasp as he staggered backwards, his knees growing weak. 'Sweet Melitele,' he prayed silently as he flopped down on his bed again, 'anything but that.'

'Surely it can't be that bad,' he thought, but when he tried to think back on his behaviour in the past few days, it made him sick.

"Fuck," he cursed again. 'No wonder the princess doesn't like me. I wouldn't like myself either.'

For the second time that week he was already dressed when Jakub came to collect him and quickly sent him away with the food he had brought. The words of his sister weighed heavily on his mind and stomach, and he found himself entirely incapable of eating anything as the words of his letters blurred before his eyes.

There were a lot of invitations from his varying neighbours he had to decline, feigning excuses about his father's recent death while they really were about hiding Cirilla and Geralt. 'I've got to do something to make her descent less obvious.' Hiding her in plain sight hadn't been his worst idea so far, still the possibility that some nobles had been to Cintra in the last few years and had caught a glimpse of the princess. But there still was a month to figure that particular obstacle out.

Midday was approaching rapidly when a knock on his door announced a visitor. "My lord," Borys, one of his guards, greeted him with a bow when he stepped inside. "We have found the poacher."

Jaskier raised his gaze expectantly from the letter he was penning. "Well," he looked around. "Where is he?"

As answer, there was the sound of commotion rising to his study and he rushed to the window to see a scrawny lad kicking and screaming, straining against the iron grip two of his other guards had on him. Marin was shouting orders and gesticulating wildly while the culprit drew quite the crowd. There were stable boys hooting and hollering, not quite obvious who they were cheering for and one of them seemed to shout something bad enough to earn him a clout on the ear from Wiktor. Geralt ushered Cirilla to the side – they had just been training – and pressed the two wooden swords into her hands while exchanging a few words. With a sharp nod the princess sprinted across the courtyard, disappearing from his line of sight – into the armoury probably.

Then, Geralt stepped out of the shadows and his demeanour changed to what Jaskier called the Scary Face. From up here it looked almost a bit like a bird ruffling up its feathers. The thought made him smile benignly. The boy stopped struggling as soon as he saw the witcher looming above him.

Jaskier turned away. He had seen enough. "Have him brought into the hall," he ordered and went back to his desk to at least close his inkwell – no need to waste the good ink by having it dry up.

By the time he got to the hall, his captive was already there, kneeling before the dais surrounded by no less than four guardsmen and a witcher. Jaskier clicked his tongue in disapproval. "Now that won't be necessary, I think," he decreed. "Leave us, please."

"My lord," Marin began warily, "talking to him alone would be highly inadvisable, in my opinion."

"Right," he answered as he took his place standing before the dais and placed his hands on his hips. "Which is why the witcher stays. The rest of you leave."

There was a fair share of reluctance on all parts but most of all on Geralt's: "I am not some common guard, my lord," he growled.

"Indeed, you aren't," Jaskier answered as soon as the three of them were alone in the room. "I just think the lad might appreciate a more private environment."

The kid laughed, high and clear. "For what exactly,  _ my lord _ ?"

"Ah," he said and leaned back against the dais, looking his captive over. "Not a lad at all, it seems. I am impressed, little girl. Do you have a name?"

"Alina," she answered. "And I am not  _ little _ ."

He raised one of his eyebrows. "How old are you, Alina?"

She raised her chin defiantly. "Sixteen."

"Right," Jaskier snorted. "How old are you?" he asked again.

There was hesitancy in her eyes before she cast them down and mumbled something incomprehensible.

"What was that?"

"She said she'll be fourteen in a moon's turn," Geralt answered for her. "My lord."

His eyebrows shot up. "Now I'm even more impressed. Cut her loose, witcher, Alina and I will have a nice conversation about how she learned to hunt."

The witcher grunted something Jaskier had long learned to interpret as surprise, but did as he was told all the same before retreating to one of the mighty columns that supported the ceiling. Alina rubbed her wrists slightly, obviously torn between looking at Jaskier in confusion and not wanting to anger him by doing so. "Get comfortable," he prompted and waited until she sat before him with crossed legs before he continued: "Who taught you how to hunt? I've seen your traps, they're wonderfully crafted."

She scoffed. "As if I'm going to tell you that."

"I'm not going to hurt you," he tried to assure her, "I'd have already done that if I wanted to. So? Any other master huntsmen or -women I need to know about?"

"Just me," she answered. "Now."

"And your father died when...?"

She flinched visibly. 'Ah.' He was onto something there. "My mother," she said after a while, "died a year ago. She's the one who taught me."

"I am sorry for your loss. Your father?"

"Ask yours," she shot back.

"Then I am doubly sorry that my family has caused you pain. Do you have any siblings?"

"Two," she admitted. "They're both younger than me."

"And there's no one left in Lettenhove to take care of you? Aunts? Uncles? Cousins? Maybe in some other town?"

She shook her head and there was the tiniest of sniffles.

"Oh dear," Jaskier said softly, fighting the urge to wrap her into a tight embrace. "I am so very sorry." He sighed heavily. "Go to the kitchens, Alina. You will receive a warm meal and food to share with your siblings. You will be taken care of for the winter."

She blinked in surprise. "Aren't- aren't you going to punish me, my lord?"

"I do not appreciate it when my game is being killed without my consent, that is true," he amended. "Therefore, you will come back in spring. I believe my huntsman is looking for a new apprentice."

She could do nothing but stare at him, her mouth opening and closing repeatedly.

Jaskier waved his hand at her. "Go now. You must be hungry." Still at a loss for words the young girl scrambled to her feet and rushed out of the room.

"Why'd you do that?" To his shame Jaskier gave a start, Geralt's voice much closer to his ear than he expected. "My lord?"

He turned to the witcher who stood barely two paces away from him and quirked his eyebrow. "Why did I do  _ what _ ?" he inquired.

Geralt gave a non-committal shrug Jaskier usually translated as 'whatever', but to his surprise he even elaborated: "Send her off with food. Promise to train her. Not punish her."

"She was hungry," he explained, "with no hopes of earning money. And she was scared."

"She could have lied," he suggested.

"Why should she?" Jaskier responded without hesitation. "I firmly believe that accused are innocent until proven guilty."

"To escape her rightful punishment? To steal from you?"

"I have plenty to share, it is no trouble at all." He fiddled with his signet ring, waiting for a response. It didn't take long for Geralt's silence to wear his patience thin: "Well, has she?"

"What?" Amusement made the lines around his eyes crinkle.

"Lied, I mean."

For that Jaskier was even rewarded with a tiny smile. "No, my lord. Not as far as I could tell."

"Good." Honest relief flooded through him. 'How terribly embarrassing it would have been,' he thought, 'to discover that my judge of character has betrayed me  _ now _ .' Then, another thought appeared in his mind: "Do you think cousin Fiona is well enough to go riding with me today?"

"Hmm," Geralt made, thinking about it for a while. "I guess. Give me... give me an hour with her, my lord. I'll bring her to you."

He clasped his hands behind his back and nodded curtly. "I'm looking forward to it."

Geralt was a man of his word and not one hour later there was a timid knock on the door to his study and Cirilla entered, her eyes cast downwards. "Lord Julian?" she said so quietly he almost couldn't hear it. "I wanted to apologise. For disappointing you."

He smiled widely. "Oh, you mustn't. There is nothing to apologise for. The gods know  _ I _ wouldn't look forward to spending all my time with old fools such as myself or our resident witcher."

She tilted her head, apparently unsure how to respond to that.

"Can I maybe tempt you to go for a ride with me now?"

She nodded eagerly. "I would like to."

"Good!" Jaskier leapt out of his chair and skidded over to her, offering her his hand to take, which she respectfully declined. That was just as well for him, same as the stoic silence she offered in response to his incessant babbling on their way to the stables. Geralt had to have alerted the stable hands, for they were already waiting there with Dancer and Dreamer, the two beautiful mares his sisters called their own. Both had recently received new saddles—he had discovered that, while saddles couldn't be embroidered once they were done, they could be branded, so now he had a saddle with buttercups and Cirilla one with little lions.

They rode out the gates at a leisurely pace, much slower than the breakneck speed Jaskier had grown fond of. But this ride wasn't solely for him; rather it was for the information Geralt had revealed to him on the previous day: Charming Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, the Lion Cub of Cintra with pretty gifts, was a futile attempt. The reason why he couldn't get her to like him was that she thought he didn't like Geralt. 'And that I am a total ass to everyone,' his brain added helpfully.

They had long left castle and village behind when he tried again: "Would you like to hear a story, cousin Fiona?"

"I would prefer not to,” she answered coolly. 

"It's a good story, I promise." She scowled at him. "And I am sure you have heard it before, though surely not from a raconteur as skilled as I am. Let's see, what do we need? Right, a stage: imagine the most beautiful place in the world. There are miles upon miles of fields with flowers, in every colour of the rainbow. Can you see it?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Good. Now, the actors. We have a Hero, of course, because every story needs one. Large and fearsome with a mighty sword and a mightier shield he uses to protect the Innocent. Ah, there's another character. The Innocent, who ask the Hero to save them from the Villain. There's a Devil in this story, and a King. And... well, there's also me."

"You?" she asked sceptically. "Why are  _ you _ there?"

"No reason in particular," he smiled at her. "I am just... the Narrator, if you will, the most unimportant character there is. The story would have transpired just the same." His smile grew sad. "There just wouldn't have been anyone to tell it after. But let's not think of that." He cracked his knuckles drumming out a rapid rhythm on the horn of his saddle in lack of a lute to play. "Once upon a time in the late summer of 1247, there was a mighty Hero in a town at the edge of the world. A beautiful year that was, and there were many beautiful places, though none quite as beautiful as where we set our stage. And I was just- I was travelling the continent, looking for a story to tell. Not necessarily  _ mine _ , just any, really. That's what the Narrator does, right?"

Cirilla didn't answer.

"I was in a beautiful little town, singing not quite so beautiful little songs, when it happened: the Innocents cried out to the Hero. The Hero accepted, of course. He set out to slay the Devil. And I followed him. Always in search of a story to tell, just as I told you. The Hero didn't want me there, of course; he was, hm, a lone wolf, if you will." He quietly laughed at his own joke. "Did I listen? Of course not."

"That's stupid," the princess interrupted him. "And you're telling the story  _ wrong _ ."

Jaskier smiled. 'Finally.' He knew his talent hadn't abandoned him. "Is it? Why so?"

"You're not the Narrator! You're just another Innocent, and the Hero is trying to protect you!"

"Am I? I'm not sure. You are never just one thing, clever girl. A hero in one story is a villain in another."

She scowled. "Well, then what is the truth?"

"The truth?" He contemplated that question for a while. "Why, my dear Cirilla, I believe the truth in this story is completely inconsequential. As is in most stories."

"That doesn't make any  _ sense _ ," she huffed in annoyance.

"Let's see if I can make it make sense." Jaskier thought about it for a little while. "It doesn't matter if the story I tell you is true or if I have made it up," he said finally. "Truth is not what stories are for."

There was a sparkle in her eye, akin to what he'd call curiosity. "Well, then what are they for?" He felt himself reminded of his days as guest lecturer in Oxenfurt. She wasn't even that much younger than the youngest of his students, although he'd always preferred to teach the older classes.

"That is the question every master poet asks themselves," he gave the same answer as always, "Why do we tell stories? Why do we listen to stories? What makes a good story? I fear I cannot give you one true answer as little as I can give you one true story. I can, however, give you the answer that is true for me."

He took the lack of an answer as an invitation to continue: "Stories are for emotions. They are to make you weep and laugh, to make you shout in anger and yelp in surprise. To make you feel wonder and terror and hate. And love. Above all, stories are there to make you fall in love. With the world, with the future, with the past. Love for the villains and the innocents. And for the heroes, of course."

Cirilla grunted, obviously displeased with the answer. Jaskier almost gave up when she didn't offer another reply. But then, to his surprise she asked: "How does the story continue?"

That put a smile on his face as he urged the horse up another path to extend their ride. That would take a while. He continued to give another rendition of his and Geralt's first meeting, a bit truer to the actual events than what he relayed in his first famous ballad. But with her he didn't have to fear that any harm would come to the elves of Dol Blathanna.

Once he had finished, she was silent for a long while. Then she said: "The Hero is Geralt." It was not a question.

"He is."

"Then the story is not a good one," Cirilla said decisively. "I know the ending and it is not a happy one. You hate each other."

Jaskier smiled softly. "Oh, my dear princess. That is exactly why I told you this story. I know this might look like a grim ending but I promise you, it is not. If there had ever been a time to hate him it was there in that shitty tavern in Posada, when he was the Butcher of Blaviken. Before I came with him. Before I had made him the White Wolf. Before I had spent half my life in service to him and his heroics."

"What did he even do to make him hate you so?"

Jaskier flinched at the wording of that. 'I don't hate him,' he wanted to say. 'Not for a long stretch.' Instead he asked: "Shouldn't you ask him that?"

"I did!" Cirilla insisted. "And he tried to explain. But I don't think he even knows what he did wrong."

His heart clenched painfully and suddenly he had the pressing desire to weep. 'You lying bastard, as if you don't know' he thought and felt the anger flare up again. "Then it is not my place to tell you."

"But he hurt you?" Jaskier turned, surprised at the genuine concern in her voice. 'Maybe she doesn't take that much after Geralt after all.'

"Yes."

"A lot?" She blinked at him with large puppy eyes and he wanted nothing more than to reach out and embrace her.

"Yes."

"As much as my grandmother when she-" Cirilla's voice broke and she gulped.

"Oh my," Jaskier breathed. "Oh, I am so sorry, I didn't mean to remind you of that, dear girl, I-"

"It's alright," she whispered, her voice thick with tears. "But it's nice to know that we have something in common."

Jaskier winced. "No, it probably hasn't hurt quite that much. But very nearly."

"Why?" she asked agonisingly. "How?"

"Sometimes the people we love most are the ones to hurt us most," he answered honestly.

She stared down at the reins she clutched tightly in her hands. "I still think it's a sad story."

"Oh, but you're seeing it wrong. We are not done yet; look around you." He spread his arms. "All the players are on the stage again! I think we are merely entering the second act. And I believe we might live to our happy ending yet."

She grunted and rolled her eyes, the spitting image of Geralt.

Jaskier couldn't help but laugh. The sound seemed to startle her. Did all sounds startle her or did he just laugh that little? "I see you are taking after our resident witcher."

"And that is a bad thing," she stated matter-of-factly.

"Not necessarily, no." He granted her a quick smile. "He's got a lot of good qualities. "

More silence followed as they ducked beneath the branches of a tree. Soon after Cirilla remarked: "You never say his name."

'She's very perceptive, that one.' Now it was him who stared at his hands, twirling his thumbs idly. "I suppose I do not."

"Why?"

He sighed heavily. How could he even begin to explain that? "I have shouted his name to every corner of the continent," he said thoughtfully. "The one you know and half a hundred others you surely will have heard. All to erase one unsavoury moniker. And it hasn't gotten me anything but rejection. I guess he has to earn it again."

They rode in silence for a while. To his surprise it was Cirilla again who spoke up first: "So you love each other?"

"I wouldn't know about him. But I guess I do."

"You don't kiss."

That startled Jaskier and Dancer snuffled when he pulled on the reins too harshly. "No, we don't. Never have."

"My grandmother and grandfather used to kiss all the time," she said with the innocence only a child could possess.

"I fear I cannot imagine that."

"It was gross."

He laughed. "That I can imagine. How about a faster pace?" he asked when they left the hill trail they had been on. When the princess nodded her assent, he pressed his heels into Dancer's sides, prompting her into a slow trot, not so fast that Cirilla couldn't follow. To his surprise she quickly sped past him and it was on him to catch up to her again, cursing and panting when he did.

"Cousin?" she asked, her voice lighter than ever before. "What about  _ your  _ name?"

"What about it?" he asked surprised.

"He said you forbade him to say it."

'Ah. That.' That truly wasn't his proudest moment. "I did."

"Why?"

"In part just because I was angry. In the beginning also, because I thought I could soothe my pain like that. I am no longer who I was with him and I can never be again."

"And now?"

"Now it's just fun to look at him trying to avoid saying it." He winked.

There was a smile tugging at Cirilla's lips. And then, for the first time since her arrival she laughed. It was a glorious sound, sweeter than any music he'd ever heard, as if sent from Melitele herself – he swore he would treasure it for the rest of his life. "You're mean!"

"Only a little," Jaskier replied and laughed, too. It was the first true laugh that had passed his lips since- since the Dragon Hunt truth be told. "But don't tell him, I want to see him dance around it for a little longer."

She drew her fingers over her lips, signifying her silence. Then, she asked: "What about me?"

"What about you, dear child?"

"What should I call you?"

"You, my dear, may call me whatever you like." He smiled brightly. "Though I think I'd like it best if you called me Jaskier."

"Jaskier," she said, tasting the sound of the name on her tongue. "I like that. It sounds pretty."

"I was very pretty when I chose it."

She wrinkled her nose at him. "Really? I wouldn't have guessed it with all those wrinkles."

Jaskier placed his palm on his chest, gasping in mock-hurt. ‘She and Yennefer would be a great fit,’ he caught himself thinking. "Now who's the mean one?" To his never-ending amazement Cirilla laughed again. "What about your name. What should I call you?"

"Ciri. It's what everyone calls me."

"And you would like me to belong to that chosen few?" he teased.

"Yes, Jaskier," she answered. "I would like that very much."

"You know what I would like?"

"Hm?"

He leaned over to her so he could whisper in her ear even though they were still a few good paces away from the gatehouse. "Sneak in the kitchen and steal baked apples."

Ciri gasped a little. "We can do that?"

"Pfft," he answered and sat upright again, "who's going to stop us? The lord?"

"Isn't your cook going to be angry?"

"That, my dear," he tapped her on the nose, "is half the fun." He swung from his saddle and extended his arms to help her down. "Come with me?" he asked and this time when he extended his hand, she took it.

Once they had raided the kitchen for baked apples and other sweets – very unsuccessful in their attempt not to get caught – he led her to the North Wing, past Armoury and Dining Room and Study, to the floor where his personal quarters were along with two other bedrooms. He pushed the door to the smallest of the three open and Ciri nearly dropped the plate she was carrying.

"What is this room?" she asked in wonderment as she stepped inside. There was a narrow bed on the other end as well as a desk, but above all it was littered with toys – dolls and tin soldiers, a rocking horse and several toy swords, stuffed animals and balls and drums and everything a child could wish for. "Jaskier?"

"It's, um-" He cleared his throat. "It's my room. It was, rather. Until I was your age. A bit older maybe. I couldn't move you in here for propriety's sake, I'd never hear the end of it but you are welcome to come here anytime you like. Or the four bedrooms above, they're my sisters'. I'm sure they have more dolls and suchlike if you'd prefer tha- oof."

The air was pressed out of his lungs when Ciri hugged him tightly. "Thank you," she whispered quietly and he gently stroked her head. "Can we stay for a while?"

He gulped. "Of course, little one. As long as you like." He sat down on the thick rug in front of the fireplace and watched the little princess flit around, seemingly eager to try out each and every one of the toys while he helped himself to the sweets they had abducted. Despite the host of toys in this room, he didn't have a lot of happy memories connected to this place. 'Maybe it's time to make new ones,' he thought.

"What are those?" Ciri shrieked in delight and showed a box to him.

"Oh!" he answered gleefully as he gingerly accepted the chest. "My puppets!" He had almost forgotten about them. "I invented my first stories with those."

"Can you tell me one? Or two?" she asked eagerly as she sat down.

"As many as you want. Let's see, I guess I'm a bit out of practice, but-" He dug through the chest, searching for the right puppet. "Once upon a time," he said impassioned as he tugged two of them free, "there was a Prince living in a tower. It was guarded by a fearsome Dragon..."

After no less than five of his earliest inventions his throat was sore from all the talking – how had he been able to sing for hours, gods, what had his life turned into? – and begged for mercy. Ciri, ever the lenient princess, granted it to him, moving the puppets about by herself for a while. Oh, what would he give to hear the story that bloomed in her head, a story about a knight with a fool's hat riding a kelpie with a prince no less?

"Jaskier?" she asked, hugging the prince close to her chest.

"Yes, Ciri?"

"What about the Narrator?"

"What about him?"

"In your stories," she explained, "everyone deserves to be loved. Even the villains. What about the Narrator?"

"I told you, my darling," he said softly, "his fate is inconsequential to the story. It doesn't matter whether he is loved or not."

"That's not true," Ciri whispered and for a moment he feared she would begin to cry, "Without him there would be no story at all. No happy ending." She hugged the prince closer. "And... it matters to me."

"Oh, my sweet darling girl," it was all he could do not to burst into tears, "the world doesn't deserve you." She looked very confused at that, so Jaskier offered: "Would you like another story?"

It was already getting late, Ciri was bedding her head on an embroidered pillow hugging a toy emperor tightly, and Jaskier could scarcely speak anymore when a quiet knock at the door announced Geralt. Ciri blinked sleepily up at him and Jaskier nodded curtly.

"I take it you had a pleasant afternoon?" the witcher asked. “And evening.”

"Very," Ciri answered and yawned as he leaned down to brush the hair from her face. "I like Jaskier."

Geralt gaped, though Jaskier could not say whether it was for the statement or the name.

He smiled contently and stood, walking over to the door.

Geralt cleared his throat. "You do not need to leave, my lord." 

"I know," he said softly. "But I believe you have a lot to talk about." He hesitated at the door and looked back over his shoulder. "Sweet dreams, Ciri. Goodnight, Geralt." The look he got from both of them was priceless. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is no way in hell you can tell me that Jaskier hasn't got a terrible attitude when he is woken up. His cheery personality kicks in after 11 am and 3 cans of coffee and not a second before.  
> I hope you liked the chapter, leave a comment or come chat with me at my [tumblr](https://dhwty-writes.tumblr.com/) if you did!  
> Edit: for those of you who don't know because you're not fluent in German (so basically all of you, lol) there's a little Easter Egg hidden in the end: Spielzeugkaiser (aka the amazing artist whose art this fic is based on) means toy emperor in German, so that's why Ciri is playing with one :)


	8. A Broken Sword

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ciri and Jaskier are getting along better by the minute. The Viscount and Geralt, however, can't seem to find common ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After that delightful dose of fluff last chapter I can assure you that we are now returning to our angsty scheduled program.  
> Thanks to [PersonyPepper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PersonyPepper) for betaing.  
> Have fun reading!

In general, things got better in Lettenhove. Geralt didn't know what Ciri and Jaskier had done that afternoon before he had found them in Jaskier's nursery, but whatever it was, he wasn't about to complain. Because by some kind of miracle it made Ciri laugh and Jaskier talk — not to him, of course, but that was another story. Even Janina had stopped insulting him at every turn.

On a personal and petty level, though, things got worse. It was stupid. He knew it was stupid. But Ciri had spent an entire afternoon with Jaskier, she even got to call him _Jaskier_. She had even gotten him to call Geralt by _his name_ ; he hadn't even known how much he'd missed that, and yet— And yet. And yet, she refused to talk about whatever had transpired that day besides that Jaskier had told her some stupid story about some _stupid_ hero.

It had been a week _and yet_ every time he tried to coax the actual story out of her, she responded with: "Jaskier said, if you don't know it, it is not his place to tell me what happened. So, it is not _my_ place to tell _you_ what happened."

It was stupid. It was ridiculous. It was infuriating.

Not only had Jaskier stolen his child surprise, but he was also feeling more like an outsider than ever. Before, it had been Ciri and him who were obviously encroaching into the ancestral home of the Lord and Ladies Pankratz, their mere presence at the dinner table an unwelcome intrusion of the familiar rhythm the three siblings followed. Now, with Ciri animatedly chatting with both Jaskier and Józefa, he grew more uneasy every day.

From time to time he even played with the thought to leave. With a good enough horse, he might still make it to Kaer Morhen before the Trail became impassable. He could leave Ciri here for the winter and return for her come spring. He trusted Jaskier not to sell her out. But then again, Jaskier was no warrior. He might have changed a lot but not that much. If Ciri would be attacked he wouldn’t be able to defend her. He couldn’t leave— it was just wishful thinking.

To make things worse, Jaskier's attitude towards _him_ didn't improve one bit. He probably could handle not being talked to; after all, he had wished for blessed silence long enough. It was the little things that made Geralt lose his mind. Like how Jaskier still insisted on calling him 'witcher' most of the time. Or how he had no qualms ordering Geralt around like one of his guards. Or that he just burst into Geralt's room one day while he was telling Ciri a story and triumphantly declared: "I have thought of a solution!"

"You can't just barge into rooms without knocking," Geralt growled.

The comment made Jaskier frown, as if he was thoroughly confused by it. "You're mistaken, witcher," he said and Ciri giggled. "I can go wherever I want, whenever I want. This is my castle, after all." He winked at Ciri and she laughed louder as if they were privy to some kind of joke Geralt didn't understand.

'Nobles.' He ground his teeth. There was a reason why he avoided aristocrats like the plague. How on earth had he managed two collect two of them? And why on earth stared the two of them at him as if they were waiting for something? Geralt sighed: "What solution, my lord?"

"We will dye Ciri's hair!" 

Ciri shrieked and attempted to scramble out of Geralt's lap, but he quickly caught her and pulled her back. "Not so fast, cublet," he said and dangled her from her ankle upside down, before he turned to Jaskier: "I beg your pardon?"

“We will dye her hair,” he repeated.

“Why?” Geralt asked and Jaskier rolled his eyes.

"To better hide her," he said very slowly as if talking to a particularly stupid child. "A lot of people know — or know _of_ — the ashen-haired Princess of Cintra, who was claimed as child surprise by Geralt of Rivia, who was foolishly immortalised for his white hair and is known to be my friend. I will try to shield her from view as much as I can but I can't lock her up for the whole winter. And pray tell, how suspicious do you think it would be to have a 'cousin' no-one has ever heard of, who fits the description perfectly, arrive with you at my home, witcher? Hm? That is disaster waiting to happen."

"So?"

Jaskier rolled his eyes at him. "So, I have had a nice little potion brought in that will dye our dear lion cub's hair in a lovely shade of chestnut brown that quite resembles mine if I do say so myself."

Geralt snorted and put Ciri down onto her feet again. "Why, because you hide your grey hairs with that?"

The moment the words left his mouth, he knew he had made a mistake. "That is none of your concern, witcher," the viscount answered and Geralt cursed silently. He couldn't quite get used to the no-jokes-about-the-viscount-allowed-policy in Lettenhove. They hadn't really talked about it — then again, what had they really talked about since his arrival? — but Jaskier enforced this unspoken law with an iron fist. The fact that Ciri seemed to be exempt — the only exception besides Józefa — didn't make it any better. Every time he saw her joking with Jaskier, both of them gently teasing each other mercilessly, he ached to join in.

Sometimes, their antics were enough to make his unyielding discipline waver, sometimes Jaskier's ramblings were. Every time he slipped up it was like starting over again. He cast his eyes downwards. "I'm sorry," he mumbled.

"Pardon, I didn't quite catch that," Jaskier retorted with that particular voice of his he used so often nowadays. Geralt still couldn't quite place its meaning.

"I'm sorry, my lord," he gritted out, swallowing down his pride and the bitter taste the address left in his mouth alike.

"You shall be forgiven," he answered politely and paused before adding: "In due time. Ciri, come with me?"

This time he didn't stop her when she wriggled out of his grasp and ran over to their host. He felt miserable just sitting there as the door closed behind them. Still, he couldn't quite stop himself from listening when Ciri squealed: "You're cruel."

He almost didn't catch Jaskier's reply: "Probably. But did you see his _face_?"

Even four days after he couldn't get used to seeing Ciri with dark hair. She had returned a few hours later to him, her hair still wet from washing the excess dye out. Like that it looked so dark it might as well be black. But Jaskier had been right: dried, it resembled his own hair colour very much.

He couldn't forget the little exchange he had overheard between Jaskier and Ciri either. He tried to avoid the word ‘eavesdropping’ when thinking about it — that wasn't really what he had been doing. Normally, they waited until they were out of earshot, even a witcher’s, before they started talking. That time they hadn't. He couldn't very well shut his ears. Which meant that he couldn't quite shake the feeling that he had been _supposed_ to hear it. But if that was the case, he couldn't figure out why.

He itched to ask them but he couldn't really do that. Because if he hadn't been supposed to hear that he had been eavesdropping — a crime Jaskier formerly would have punished with a light slap on his wrist and some silly moniker. 'Scamp', maybe, or 'rogue' or perhaps even 'scoundrel'. Now, however… And he couldn't ask Ciri either. In the best case, she'd tell him she couldn't tell him again. In the worst case she'd tell Jaskier.

He was mulling over that question again, watching Ciri out of the corner of his eye as she balanced on the railing of the gallery when his thoughts were interrupted by a loud shout: "Ci- Fiona!" Jaskier rushed out into the courtyard without so much as a cloak to protect him from the dropping temperatures and stared up at his child surprise in horror. "What are you-" He turned to Geralt, seething with anger. " _What is she doing up there?_ "

"Training," he answered matter-of-factly.

"Training?!" his voice cracked. "What do you mean, training? I thought you were teaching her how to wield a sword!"

"And I thought you weren't watching," he replied before thinking the better of it.

"That is not the point! This is not teaching her how to wield a sword, witcher! This is dangerous! What if she falls?"

"She won't," he insisted stubbornly. He had her balance on all kinds of narrow paths before, though none of them in such heights. Only when she had mastered the previous paths had he allowed her up the railing.

"What if she _does_?"

"That's why I'm watching her," Geralt growled and moved to brush past him. He was no idiot. He wouldn't let her fall. "Get out of the way, bard, you're blocking my line of sight."

Jaskier didn't want to hear any of that: "Get her down from there, now!"

"Jas-"

"Now, witcher!"

" _My lord-_ "

Jaskier yelped as Ciri stumbled and flailed with her arms. Geralt pushed past him, ready to catch his child surprise. A smug grin spread on his face as she regained her balance quickly. With agile movements she finished walking and came rushing down the stairs.

"Jaskier!" she exclaimed happily, skipping over to them. "Did you see me?"

The bard in question nodded, paler than a death shroud and gasping for air as if he had been the one stalking the balustrade. 'Always so dramatic,' he thought and rolled his eyes. "I did, darling, you did wonderful," Jaskier patted her on the shoulder and forced a smile.

"Look at what Geralt taught me yesterday!" Without hesitating she did a handstand and began walking on her hands before closing with a cartwheel. With rosy cheeks she turned to them. "Will you watch?"

"I-" Jaskier faltered. Geralt could see him agonising over it. 'Ha!' he thought smugly. 'He's as much under her charm as I am.' It would have warmed his heart if not for the stink of vinegar, infected wounds and peppers in the air. "Sure," Jaskier said finally. "For a bit."

Her face lit up as she turned back to Geralt. "Can I do the barrels next?"

He waved his hand in permission and watched her run off. "Barrels?" Jaskier gasped. "What barre- sweet Melitele have mercy!" The stench of vinegar was strong enough to make Geralt gag. "Does she do that all the time?"

"She does," he agreed and watched Ciri clamber up the barrels of ale that had been transported in a few days ago. They had quickly been included into their daily routine.

"What if she trips?"

"My lord," Geralt sighed heavily.

"Witcher."

"You have just seen her walk over a railing that is thinner than her feet are wide. She won't trip."

"Geralt!" Ciri called for their attention. "Jaskier! Look!" She was doing a handstand on the highest barrel now and Jaskier blanched again.

"Oh, no, child, that's-", he cried.

"Don't get cocky, now!" Geralt added. "Or else-"

"I'll become a prick like Lambert, I know," she answered and stood upright again. He did his best to ignore the pointed glare Jaskier gave him. "I'll just balance over here real quick- Shit!"

It happened far too quickly for either of them to react. Ciri's foot caught on something and then she stumbled into the four feet of thin air below her. By the time Geralt was running towards her she was already lying on the floor, clutching her right ankle tightly. Pride welled up inside him to see that no tears stained her cheeks. "Are you alright?" he asked and tried to scoop her up.

She cried in pain as he touched her, and now there were tears and he felt horrible. "It hurts!" she complained.

"I told you to be careful," he chided, "I told you not to get cocky!"

"Am I becoming a prick now?" she asked so earnestly that it made him laugh. "No!" she sobbed harder. "Don't laugh! It hurts!"

"I won't, I won't," he reassured her quickly, trying to regain his composure. "Show me where?"

He barely registered Jaskier shouting while Ciri pointed at her right ankle. And her right arm. And her right shoulder. Her whole right side basically.

"Borys, don't stare and make yourself useful!" the viscount bellowed, "Take a horse and go get Wera- No, you idiot! Take two horses! Marin!"

"Yes, my lord."

"I'll have these barrels removed! Now!"

"At once, my lord."

"You know what? I'll have any climbable structure that could pose a threat to a ten-year old child removed."

"The stables too, my lord?"

“The stables- I- No, of course not, you imbecile!”

“Just checking, my lord.”

"Marin."

"Yes, my lord?" There was a pause. Geralt imagined Jaskier giving Marin a very stern look but he was too busy checking for injuries to look up. "No jokes, understood. Alright men, you heard his lordship!"

Jaskier fell to his knees next to Geralt. "Ci- Fiona, my dear, how are you feeling?" he asked anxiously, the scent of vinegar spiking again.

"I'm fine," Ciri sniffled. "But my foot hurts."

"Yeah, I don't doubt that... You!" He pointed at a passing servant. "Bandages and cold water. Now!" Jaskier shooed Geralt off and turned back to Ciri, carefully peeling the sleeve of her tunic away. "Here, let me see- ohh, that doesn't look good."

She gasped. "What is it?"

He frowned deeply. "I fear we'll have to lop it off. There's just no saving it..."

She shrieked and giggled. "That's not true! Geralt, tell me that's not true!"

He did his best to maintain a straight face: "No, he's completely right. I've had griffin bites smaller than that."

"An infected wound is a serious business, little one," Jaskier added. "Best not take any risks."

"Yeah, with a scrape as bad as this... best take preemptive measures-"

She made a very rude gesture at them. "You're horrible." Geralt scoffed and to his surprise Jaskier snickered. He hadn't heard him laugh since their arrival. Ciri shoved both of them hard. Jaskier at least had the courtesy to fall over.

"Now that's not true," Geralt said as Jaskier answered: "Anything to make you laugh, darling girl."

"I hate you," she pouted, "both of you."

"Say that again and you're grounded for the rest of the week, young lady. Melitele knows you need the bedrest..."

"I'm fine!" Ciri insisted stubbornly and sprung to her feet to show it. Geralt was impressed that she didn't even wince.

"You are fine when Wera says you are. Sit down and wait here for her. I need to borrow my witcher for a bit."

She frowned. "But I'm not finished, yet!" she insisted.

"Yes, you are," Geralt agreed with Jaskier. "You can't fight like that."

"You do!" she replied and he cursed quietly.

"Another reason why I need a word with him," Jaskier said and stared at Geralt angrily. "You can continue tomorrow, dear child, if Wera allows it. This is important."

"Is this one of those grown-up talks?" She wrinkled her nose. "If so, I don't want to see that."

Jaskier took a shuddering breath. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, exactly. Marta!" He waved for the servant to come over. "Go and draw Fiona a bath, Melitele knows she needs one. And then you just... take the day off, hm? Read a bit. Or have Marta help you over to see Józefa. I believe she's almost done with the cartoon for her tapestry."

Ciri scowled at him before letting Marta support her in order to limp back to the South Wing, muttering ‘Grown-ups are weird’ as she went.

As soon as the door to the well house shut behind them, Jaskier turned to him, his voice sharp as razor blades: "My study," he ordered. "Now."

Geralt narrowed his eyes and ground his teeth but still he followed him when he turned back to the East Wing. The way up the stairs, spent in complete silence, was torture. Every step poisoned the air more with the horrid stench of vinegar-fear and peppery anger.

It made Geralt want to retch as an icy hand grasped his own heart. He knew the fiery taste of Jaskier's fury well enough. Usually it appeared on his behalf, not because of him. That alone was worrying, but the truly terrifying thing was the sour stench that came with panic. Jaskier never smelled of fear in his presence: not upon their first meeting, not when facing elves and djinns and angry Yennefers. Not even with the prospect of walking down a deadly mountain trail all on his own. 'What have I done that he fears me?' he asked himself. 'What have I done that he no longer feels safe in my presence?'

His thoughts were interrupted with the doors slamming shut behind him. "What were you thinking?" Jaskier shouted and the spice flared again. "Climbing barrels, Geralt? Really? Were you even thinking, you absolute idiot?"

"I am training her," Geralt answered simply.

"You were endangering her!" He whipped around, his chest heaving heavily. "You're supposed to keep her out of harm's way, not thrust her in it!"

"Calm down. She only twisted her ankle. That happens all the time."

"And scraped her whole arm open! And her side probably, too! She could have broken something!"

"But she hasn't. She was just overexcited because you were watching. Normally she knows to be careful."

"She is a ten-year-old girl, Geralt! She has no sense of self-preservation."

"Funny, hearing that from you."

Jaskier scoffed and crossed his arms. "That doesn't matter right now. You can't have her climbing unstable barrels and balancing fourteen feet above the ground! She could die if she fell!"

"You're exaggerating. The railing's not fourteen feet high."

"For once in my life I am not! Fuck, Geralt, sometimes I wonder if you have a conception of humans at all. She's a child, not a witcher!"

"At Kaer Morhen-" he tried.

"We are not at Kaer Morhen!" Jaskier interrupted him. "Haven't you noticed? We are not there because the mere way up there is deadly to humans when it is too cold! You are in Lettenhove for precisely that reason! And as the lord of this castle, I will not tolerate it!"

He crossed his arms and scoffed. "Are you now going to tell me how to train her?"

Jaskier's face was unmoving, his voice cold as stone: "Precisely."

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "You are being dramatic, _my lord_."

"No. No, I am not! Have you seen her bruises? I think there is not a single unmarked spot on her body! I don't even know how she can sleep at night!"

"Children are resilient. Besides, a few bruises don't harm anyone."

"Yes, they do!" There was the slightest quiver in Jaskier's voice that made Geralt falter. "Not everyone is like you and likes getting beat up!"

"She'll be fine," he said a bit more cautiously. "Everyone who learns how to fight goes through that. They all come around."

"No, they don't!" Jaskier's voice broke weakly, a broken sob ripping free of him that made him want to come closer and flee at the same time. "I didn't! I hate it! I hated it as a child and I hate it now and I will always hate it! Do not do the same to her!"

Geralt stared at Jaskier. What else was there he could do while the tears fell helplessly, staining his cheeks and dripping on his silken doublet. "I'm sorry," Geralt said finally, still trying to process his words. Now that he came to think of it, that was probably the most Jaskier had ever revealed to him about his life before leaving for Oxenfurt. Melitele’s tits, he hadn’t even been aware that Lettenhove was in Redania until recently. It was a shocking realisation, that he didn’t know anything about Jaskier’s childhood at all. "I didn't mean to, Jas-"

“‘I didn't mean to, _my lord_ ,’" he spat and turned away, "Get that into that thick head of yours already." The scent of spicy anger and salty-teared sadness was thick in the air.

" _My lord_ ," he tried again, tentatively reaching out, but Jaskier only recoiled even more.

"Go away," he murmured, his voice thick with tears, "I don't want to see you anymore."

Geralt tensed. He wanted nothing more than to make it better, to take his words back, quell the tears and smother the scent that reeked like a dusty mountaintop littered with corpses. 'I'm just trying to figure out what pleases me.' Maybe- "It would _please_ me-"

"But it wouldn't please _me_!" Jaskier snapped. "Leave already!"

He hesitated for a few heartbeats, hoping that Jaskier would change his mind. He didn't. "Right," Geralt said quietly. "As my lord commands." He turned on his heel and stalked out of the room.

Not knowing what else to do, Geralt crossed over to the South Wing again to see if Ciri was alright. But as soon as he opened the door to Ciri's room, he heard a decided: "Out!" The old healer sat on the bed with Ciri, fussing over her injuries - to his shame, they looked a lot worse than he had anticipated.

"I just-" he began, but Wera interrupted him: "No. Out. You can see her when I am done."

He quickly glanced at Ciri, who smiled encouragingly. "Don't worry," she said, "I'll be fine."

"Fine," he muttered, and walked out of the room again. This day was not going as he had planned it.

He was still scowling when he reached the courtyard again, where they were still busy stowing away anything Ciri could climb. He snarled and moved to turn away, when he heard a familiar voice behind him: "So," Marin said, "you're an idiot. That's a surprise."

"What?" he snapped and whipped around. "I'm not-"

"Yes, you are. Because his lordship's right. That was bloody dangerous."

He snarled and turned away, pacing as vinegar filled the air around him. He didn't need another one telling him what to do. It had been fine until Jaskier had put his nose in places where it didn't belong.

"Geralt." He forced himself to still at Marin's firm voice behind him and grunted. "You're scaring the folks."

"I know," he growled, "I can smell it. Nothing I can do about it, is there?"

The Captain of the Guard shrugged. "Well, you could stop growling at everyone who walks past you. Grab an axe and finish that tree you massacred. Kill a monster or two. Spar with me."

"There're no monsters in Lettenhove," he answered.

"No, there's not. But I've heard news from Saltwall. That's a town a day and a half's ride from here. Apparently, they are having trouble with some necrophages or something."

He wanted to snap that that could mean anything but thought the better of it. "I don't have my armour. Or my sword."

Marin blinked stupidly. "What do you mean? Hasn't his lordship told you? They were brought in from Goldfurt four days ago."

Now it was Geralt who blinked. "No. He hasn't."

He shrugged. "I'll have it sent to your room. You go and look after Lady Fiona now. Wera will be done by now."

"Hmm," Geralt made and turned back to the South Wing. Before he could go inside, he said: "Thanks." He didn't wait for an answer. Instead he just rushed up the stairs, taking two steps at once.

Marin had the right of it; when he opened the door to Ciri's room, the old healer was gone. It was just the princess on the bed, reading a book. "How's princess Isabella the Brave?" he asked.

She rolled her eyes at him. "I read that _yesterday_ , Geralt. This one's about Sir Bartel the Strong."

"My apologies," he said quickly. He had long given up trying to keep track of the various heroes the novels dealt with — he had no doubts that she would have made her way through the entire collection before midwinter. He poked her in her side and made her squirm. "How's this princess, then?"

"I'm fine," she assured him and giggled. "My ankle has almost stopped hurting."

"And the arm? Still attached to your shoulder, I see."

Ciri stuck out her tongue. "All bandaged up. And the salve _stinks_."

“Hmm,” he made. "Then it helps."

"That's what Wera said, too! Is that another stupid grown-up thing?"

He smiled a bit. "Probably. I-"

There was a knock on the door that made both of them jump. "Come in!" Ciri called.

The door opened to reveal one of the younger guardsmen in Jaskier's employ. "I, uh- Marin told me to bring this to you, Sir Witcher."

Geralt raised his eyebrows in amusement and snorted when he saw the boy struggling with the pack of armour and the silver sword in his arms. He stood and strode over to him, relieving him of his heavy burden. "Thanks. That'll be all," he said and shut the door in his face.

Gently he placed the armour on the floor — it was even polished — and passed his fingers over the new scabbard of his sword. With one swift stroke he pulled it free, turning to see the blade gleaming in the sunlight. It was marvellously crafted, not a single unevenness to be found. 'It must've cost him a fortune,' he thought stunned.

Ciri's voice ripped him back to the present: "You're leaving, aren't you?"

He sighed. He had planned to be sensible about this. That was no use now. "For a while."

She turned back to her book. "I understand," she said. "You can't train me now anyways. Just be back as soon as I can walk again."

"I will be back far sooner than that," he promised her.

"That's good. Will you stay with me this evening?"

"Sure." He sat down on a chair beside her. "What do you want to do?"

"There are some games in the nightstand that Jaskier gave me."

He nodded and pulled one of the boards out. Following her instructions, he began setting up the pieces as he tried to remember the complicated rules she told him. In the end he lost most of the times they played, but at least it had made Ciri laugh.

He and Ciri didn't attend dinner, and neither did Jaskier, as he discovered when he went looking for him afterwards. "His lordship has already turned in for the night hours ago," Janina told him coldly when he found her and her sister in the fireplace room.

"He doesn't wish to be disturbed," Józefa added in the same tone. "By you."

Geralt hunched his shoulders and retreated out of the room. He wasn't particularly looking forward to talking to Jaskier, especially not when his company was obviously unwanted. On the other hand, he'd rather get out of the castle sooner than later. So, he ignored the warning and climbed the stairs to the lord's chambers.

He took a steadying breath and rasped his knuckles on the door. "Come in." He pushed it open and stepped inside. Jaskier looked better now. His hair was still damp from bathing and he smelt of bath salts and chamomile tea. He was dressed in nothing but a green silk robe, sitting on his bed with some report or another. He normally only looked that relaxed when he had spent a night in a lover’s embrace. The room didn't smell of sex, though, and Geralt wasn't sure if he was surprised or relieved.

Jaskier barely looked up when Geralt stepped inside nor did he make any attempt to hide his bare chest from view. He did, however, pull at a few strands of his hair to try and hide his bloodshot eyes. Something in his stomach tightened. 'Now that's not fair.'

"Witcher?" Jaskier prompted.

'Ah. Still cross at me.' He cleared his throat. "My lord, there's a contract in the area."

"And?"

"I'm going to take it."

He hummed quietly, flipping his page over. "Maybe. If you ask nicely."

He suppressed a sigh. "Do I have your leave to take this contract, my lord?" After a while he added: "If it might _please_ you."

The paper crumpled loudly in Geralt's ears when Jaskier gripped it tighter. “It doesn’t,” he said curtly and took his time reading the page. Then, he spoke up again: "I'll consider it."

With a frustrated huff he turned his back. It was no use arguing with Jaskier when he was angry.

"How long will you be?"

Geralt stopped in his tracks. "It isn't far from here. Saltwall, Marin said. Four days, maybe five."

The flipping of another page. "You leave at sunrise tomorrow, witcher. Take a horse that might suit your needs." There was a tiny pause. "Don't you _dare_ be late."

A smile curled around his lips at the indignation in his voice. 'Missed you, Jaskier.' "I won't, my lord,” he promised. “Sleep well."

He closed the door behind him, the clicking of the lock nearly drowning out Jaskier's whisper: "Sleep well, my witcher. Return to me soon."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave a comment to let me know what you think of hop over to my [tumblr](https://dhwty-writes.tumblr.com/) to come chat with me if you like!


	9. Waiting for a Wayward Witcher

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt is away on a contract and Jaskier is not worrying, thank you very much. It still is hard to take care of a small child who does not excel at the same task.

Jaskier prided himself on his many virtues: he was a master poet, the most famous bard of the Continent and had been invited to play at lowly taverns and royal courts alike. He had graduated summa cum laude from Oxenfurt Academy as a Master of the Seven Liberal Arts and had won no less than ten different bardic tournaments, three of them several times and one — on a very memorable occasion — twice in a row. He had specialised in talking himself in and out of every possible and impossible situation one could think of; he could tune his lute along to Geralt's grunts, and could track his witcher down with scarcely more than a rumour about one white-haired individual in the area.

Nevertheless, while all those talents were surely nice, they were not what was really important. His most useful ability was, without a doubt, not worrying about a person whose profession consisted of risking his life while fighting deadly monsters.

That was a rule: Jaskier did not worry about Geralt of Rivia. He could not. 'I must not. That way madness lies,' he knew. He had done so, in the very beginning. Alright, more than just in the very beginning. It had taken the astonishing number of fifty-two sleepless nights, four twisted ankles, one broken arm (and being abandoned in the middle of nowhere thereafter) and three near-death experiences for him to stop worrying and start staying put when Geralt told him to.

So, naturally, as someone who was not worrying about Geralt, he sat on his windowsill early the next morning, with a terrible headache that came with the dehydration after a day spent crying. 

Naturally, the viscount watched the witcher leave the South Wing at the crack of dawn and make his way to the stables.

Naturally, he bundled up in his cloak and stepped outside to the battlements to watch him disappear along the road. 'Just to make sure,' he told himself. To make sure what exactly he didn't know either - it was highly improbable that Geralt lost his way before riding out of his view or that he was attacked or- or- Still, it calmed his nerves to wait before returning to his study, shunning his breakfast as he found himself inexplicably unable to eat.

Jaskier wasn't worried. He couldn't be. He just had to trust in Geralt’s abilities and in him staying true to his word and returning in five days time.

He had scarcely time to read through the names on the new letters piling up on his desk, before he was interrupted by an undignified howl.

Janina stormed into his study with swirling skirts, throwing the doors open with such a force that the ugly vase began swaying on its pedestal. Jakub followed closely behind, distracted from his attempt to keep Janina out by trying to keep the vase from falling. "Julian Pankratz," his sister poked her finger into his chest, " _ where _ is my  _ horse _ ?"

"Uh-," Jaskier said eloquently and pleadingly looked to Jakub for help.

"The witcher claimed that you have given him free choice from the stables," his servant answered. "So, he chose Dancer."

"Right," Jaskier said. 'Fuck,' Jaskier thought. "That is true." 

"I beg your pardon?" Janina gasped and Jaskier waved at Jakub to signal for him to go. There was nothing he could do about Janina's raging but pour himself a drink and take it. For a while at least, before the shouting began to grate on his nerves too much.

"Are you quite done yet?" Jaskier slammed down his goblet forcefully, the liquor sloshing over the sides. 'When have I taken to drinking this early?' he wondered.

"No," Janina hissed, "I am not!" 'Ah,' he thought. 'Since I am forced to suffer my family again,' he concluded.

He sauntered back to the armchair in the far corner of his study, collapsing onto it. "Wake me when you are, will you?"

She followed him with large steps. "Listen to me,  _ will you _ ?" she replied in the same voice and he rolled his eyes behind his closed lids. "He had no right to take Dancer, that mutant-!"

"Ah, ah, ah!" Jaskier held up one hand to shut her up. "You lost the bet. Not a word against him, you promised."

"But these are surely extenuating circumstances!"

He sat up and pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. "I didn't know, alright!" he exclaimed and looked up again. "I didn't think he'd even consider to take Dancer or any other of our horses when given the whole stable to choose from! I thought he'd take one of the guards' horses. Marin's maybe, or Titan, they know combat at least."

She crossed her arms. "Well, have him come back."

Jaskier wrinkled his nose. "No. I won't," he decided. Truth be told, he wasn’t entirely unhappy with Geralt out of Lettenhove for a few days. Maybe that would give their simmering tempers time to calm down a bit.

"Why?" she scoffed. "Is it because of your silly fight?"

His expression went blank. "No." He had no desire to let her know just how close to home she had hit.

"You're acting childish, Julian. And you can't lie for shit. You were right to chastise him, for he acted foolishly. But he'll never respect you if you don't follow through."

"I don't need him to respect me!" he shouted before he could stop himself.

"No?" Janina smirked. 'Fuck.' She always knew how to get a rise out of him. "Then why are you indulging in this power play of yours at all?"

"I'm not-" he faltered, choking on his own words. 'I don't know,' he realised appalled. "Fuck off, Janina."

"Get my horse back, Julian," she retorted stubbornly.

"He'll bring her back in five days’ time," he answered and gulped. His voice was scarcely more than a whisper when he added: "He promised me."

Janina clicked her tongue in disapproval and shook her head. "You're a fool, Julian Pankratz," she said softly. "A bloody soft-hearted fool and an idiot, too."

He smiled sadly. "If the best education on the continent and two decades on the Path couldn't make me learn, none of your insults ever will."

She wrinkled her nose in disgust. "I pity you, little brother."

He waved his hand dismissively. "Pity me all you want," he answered tiredly, "just don't do it in my presence."

A wave of relief washed over him when she finally left. He didn't want Janina's pity, he didn't want Geralt's respect. Truth be told he didn't know what he wanted.

No, that was not quite right. He knew  _ exactly _ what he wanted. It was just nothing he could have, as always. He was used to that by now: the unrelenting bite of  _ longing _ gnawing at his heart, his soul, every fibre of his very being. Not that that made it any easier.

As a boy, he had longed to escape Lettenhove, to exchange the cold empty hallways of his ancestral home for the time-honoured halls of Oxenfurt Academy, filled to the brim with books and scrolls and  _ knowledge _ — a place of legends and lore, of stories and secrets, of wisdom and wishes; a place to love and learn and  _ live _ .

He had soon learned that exchanging one gilded cage for another one did not make him free. That was what he longed for next: freedom, and fame, thereafter, and always fortune. He had been fortunate to stumble upon a witcher not long later, a brooding stranger who became his closest companion, his most trusted friend.

It had been fine for the first few years. His insatiable need to move, to sing, to compose, to  _ do something _ was almost satisfied, save for the winters, of course, when he and Geralt went their separate ways.

But together, with him, he had dared to dream that his desire was sated. And then the day had dawned when being Geralt's friend wasn't enough anymore, and Jaskier went back to longing. Longing for what he couldn't have, for Geralt didn't fall for fumbling bards who inconvenienced him, not when the most powerful mage to ever grace a court was  _ right there _ .

Still, he had longed. Still, he had hoped. And that was the key difference. There had always been hope. A small hope, truth be told, and growing slimmer with every time Geralt fell in bed and in love with another person that wasn't him. Not that he was much different, granted, but that was another point entirely. The point here was that there had always been hope, despite everything.

Now? Now there was no hope left. For what he longed for was for everything to go back to normal. What he longed for was to reverse the clock, to go back to before the mountain, and to prove himself to Geralt. He longed for them to never scale the blasted thing, for Geralt to never send him away, to wipe away the tarnish that thrice-damned day had left on their relationship, broken beyond repair.

'You're a fool, Jaskier,' he told himself over and over again, 'you're a fool for wishing for what never can be.'

A loud crash interrupted his musings and distracted him from the very polite yet very insulting letter he was penning - an activity that quickly became his favourite pastime. He shuddered at the realisation that he thought of anything as terribly tedious, tiring, and as trite as writing letters as a  _ pastime _ of all things. And yet, here he was.

"Jakub?" he called in the hopes his servant would answer him. "Is that you?"

His manservant stuck his head through the door. "Not me, my lord. I heard it, too."

Jaskier sighed and pushed himself up from his desk. His mind was still reeling from the words buzzing around inside and not in the pleasant way that came with composing until his fingertips bled from the lute strings. He took a moment to steady himself and walked over to the door. "There are a few finished letters on my desk," he instructed his servant. "See to it that they are delivered to my insufferable neighbours."

He quickly moved out of the way to let him pass and bowed obediently. "At once, my lord."

"I'll go and check the damage," he said, throwing his arms open widely to emphasise the inconvenience of such a task.

Truthfully, he was glad for the distraction the commotion offered him - he had quite enough of letters and reports and inventory stocks and suchlike. 'Janina is right to pity me,' he thought grimly, 'for I will be doing this until my death.' The thought made him want to retch.

Even worse: this winter, he might be able to elude a fair share of invitations and propositions alike, but it wouldn't stay like that. He gave it a year or maybe two — probably way less — before he would find himself contrived to marry and wasn't  _ that _ a dreary thought?

Suddenly, the idea of leaving Lettenhove to Janina and going to the court in Tretogor didn't seem too bad. But then again, he'd be roped into all kinds of intrigues, even more perilous than this one, and Dijkstra would have a much better handle at him. He really didn't need that.

He pushed the door to his rooms open, only to find them empty. "Weird," he said to himself and walked back out again. He tried his mother's old rooms next, but they were deserted, too. 'Third time's the charm,' he told himself and opened the door to his nursery.

"Ah," he said, a smile on his face before he could even try to resist, "who do we have here?"

"Jaskier!" Ciri turned back to him with a large smile on her face.

She attempted to stand up from where she was sitting on the floor but he firmly sat her down again. "What are you doing here?" he chided softly. "Wera surely told you that you need to rest."

"She did! But it was dreadfully boring in my room and you said I could come here whenever I want, so I did."

" ‘So I did’, huh? I fear I must limit your access to these rooms retroactively. You may not come here when doing so imperils your health." He sat down on the thick rug beside her.

"You're no fun at all!" she pouted and he chuckled softly.

"Hey," he said and tapped her on the nose, "that's my line." She stuck her tongue out at him. "How are you feeling after yesterday's mishap?" he asked a bit more seriously.

"I'm  _ fine _ ," she insisted, "I don't need anyone to mother me, I told Geralt as much already."

"Did you now?" He raised a sceptical eyebrow at her. "Did he listen?"

"He's not here now, is he?" she replied drily and Jaskier nodded appreciatively.

"Did he talk to you before he left?"

She looked at him funnily. "Of course, he did. Geralt would never leave me without a word."

"Of course, he wouldn't," he said bitterly. 'Get a grip, Jaskier,' he told himself. 'You're pathetic, to be jealous of a child.'

"Did he talk to  _ you _ before he left?" she countered and he bit down hard on his tongue to keep a straight face. 'No reason to inconvenience her with all of that.'

"He did," he answered, "of sorts, I guess. He asked my leave to go on the hunt."

"And you gave it to him?"

"He's not here now, is he?" he mimicked in her voice.

"Hmm," Ciri sounded, and Jaskier chuckled before reaching over to muss her hair. Now that she did talk to him, witnessing those little Geraltisms she had picked up were adorable. A bright smile spread on her face, the serious conversation apparently forgotten. "Will you tell me a story, Jaskier?"

"Of course," he replied without thinking and moved to get his puppets. "What kind of story would you like to hear?"

"Have you ever seen a dragon?" she asked with childish innocence in her voice, not noticing how he froze, pain piercing his chest.

"I have," he answered with a shaky voice. "It was..." 'Painful,' his brain supplied. 'The worst day of my life.' Instead, he opted for: "...beautiful."

"Tell me about it," she pleaded and how could he resist her?

His hands trembled as he pulled the puppets from the box. "Once upon a time," he said sadly, "in a faraway land there was a brave Knight, as valiant as there has ever been. He was travelling the Continent with his merry company, a motley crew of a Fool, a Kelpie and a Demigod when they met the King of the Mountain, robbed of his crown. He promised the Knight the hand of his daughter, a beautiful Princess, if he could return his throne to him. And so, the Knight set out to slay the dragon." Ciri gasped in shock and Jaskier smiled softly, settling into the familiar rhythm of telling a story: "Don't worry, darling girl, for the Knight was no ordinary Knight. This is the story of the Knight who was taught to save dragons..."

He talked without really knowing what he was doing; it was relaxing to shut his brain off and just  _ talk.  _ In the end, a Beggar they had met on their way to the Dragon's lair revealed himself as the Dragon, the Demigod flew on its back to his home among the stars after he had a few moments to linger on the Fool's tragic death. The Knight brought the King a dragon’s tooth as proof of his victory and married the Princess. “They lived happily ever after,” he concluded. “And if they are not dead, then they still live today.” 

Ciri was silent for a long time. Then, she asked: "Did you fight yesterday? You and Geralt?"

"Yes," he answered reluctantly, mentally steeling himself for the question that would inevitably follow.

It still hit him like a witcher's fist to his gut: "Is that why he left?"

"I-" his voice broke. How was he supposed to answer that? He would have opted for the truth, but gods, he didn't even know what that was. "I am sure it was not inconsequential to his decision," he answered diplomatically.

"But did you make up before he left?"

He looked down at the puppets in his lap. "No," he confessed, "we didn't make up."

"Why not?" she scrunched her nose. "My nursemaid told me that I  _ always _ have to make up before I part ways with those I fight with,  _ even _ if it's just for the night. And  _ even _ if it's their fault."

"Ciri, we didn't even make up for our  _ last _ fight," he said agonised, guilt coursing through his veins. "It's just not that easy."

"Hmm," she made. A very displeased sound, differing from the other Cirisms; those usually meant that she didn't know what to say. "What did you fight about?"

He passed his hand through her knotted hair and began disentangling the strands. "You, sweetheart," he said lost in thought. When he felt her tense beneath his fingers he quickly added: "Don't you  _ dare _ think it's your fault."

"But-" she began, but he quickly interrupted her: "No, Ciri," he said firmly. " _ We're _ the adults and none of our mistakes are your wrongdoing." He chewed on his lip, painfully remembering his own childhood. "Whatever there is between Geralt and me, it should not trouble you or impair your relationships with either of us. We're old enough to solve this ourselves." He began braiding her hair with soft fingers. "We're here to protect you, little princess, not the other way around. Alas, Geralt's and my idea of your protection take very different shapes."

Ciri straightened her back. "Geralt is teaching me to protect myself!" she said proudly.

"I know," he answered. "And I would rather not have you in that tight spot at all." He tied the braid off with a leather band — he still carried one around his wrist even one and a half years after parting ways with Geralt — and kissed her on the crown of her hair. "What would you say to pear fritters?" he asked nonchalantly.

"With cinnamon?" she asked.

He snorted offended. "Of course, what do you take me for? An uncultured swine?"

"In that case," she grinned at him widely, "I would say that I'm hungry."

He smirked mischievously and turned his back to her to give her a piggyback ride to the kitchens. "Geralt will kill me if he learns that your diet consists mostly of sweets while he's gone."

He swayed only slightly as he stood and grimaced as he found that despite walking nigh twenty years beside Geralt across the continent, he could now scarcely carry Ciri without panting heavily. "He will," she agreed and closed her arms around his shoulders tightly.

"But he's not here now, is he?" they said in unison.

After that first day, time flew. They settled into a somewhat familiar rhythm, Ciri's lessons with Geralt replaced with a very different kind of education that taught her the might of the pen rather than the sword. She spent most of the time lounging lazily in his study while he told her about the regional politics that shaped the landscape of Redania and taught her valuable lessons about the power of secrets. To his surprise, she was almost as eager to learn the fine art of insulting with the prettiest compliments as she was to learn how to batter her opponents with swords.

To his even bigger surprise he found himself enjoying his shared time with Ciri; even the most boring tasks he barely could talk himself into normally, seemed almost amusing now that he got to explain it to her. And she listened eagerly, apparently intent on accumulating as much information as possible in those short hours they had each day.

In the afternoons he still brought Ciri to spend time with his sisters — while his mornings were greatly entertaining, they were rather unproductive as he had to admit. She didn't seem to mind too much, though. Ciri enjoyed watching Józefa work on the great family tapestry she was weaving and sometimes Janina could even talk her into doing some needlework, if she bribed her enough.

Some days into Geralt's absence Jaskier even found her chatting with his elder sister quietly when he joined them for dinner. He didn't dare ask but was informed by Jakub on the next day that apparently Janina had found her way into Ciri's trust by collaborating with Józefa and expanding on his lessons — both of them had quite a lot of insight to offer themselves.

He hadn't even noticed the days pass until he brought Ciri to lunch with his sisters and Janina noted: "I trust my horse will be returned to me by sundown."

He silently — and loudly, too, later on — cursed her for her words. For the rest of the afternoon Jaskier couldn't seem to focus on anything. He constantly caught himself traipsing around his study, sneaking glances out of the window in hopes of seeing a familiar hulking figure in the courtyard.

And then the afternoon gave way to evening, red sunset light filtering into his rooms — 'Red like rubies,' he had to remind himself, 'not blood, surely not blood.' — and Ciri burst through the doors, limping and panting and wincing. "He hasn't returned," she announced anxiously.

Jaskier took a deep shuddering breath, reminding himself of his greatest virtue and forced himself to stop the damned pacing — for Ciri's sake if not his own. "There's still time," he assured her, though his words didn't sound very convincing in his ears either.

"It's getting dark!"

"He's a witcher, Ciri. He can see just fine in the dark."

"But Dancer cannot," she told him.

"No, but Geralt will not ride her in that case. Believe me Ciri, I've seen him do it a hundred times before."

"What if something has happened to him? What if-"

"Shh..." he told her and quickly embraced her tightly. "You mustn't think of that, my dear darling girl. It will only drive you mad." 'Trust me,' he thought, 'I know.'

She tensed even more. "How did you manage to do that for sixteen years?"

A shuddering laugh escaped him. 'Nothing child appropriate,' he thought, 'I sang until my voice forsook me, drank until I couldn't think straight and fucked until I couldn't walk straight. Don't try it, it only leads to misery.' Instead he said: "I can't seem to remember. But you are in luck, little princess, there is nothing quite like Anna's pumpkin tarts to nurse a broken heart." He leaned down to her. "And I just saw her make some this morning."

Half an hour later they were both nursing a stomach ache besides their throbbing hearts and Jaskier tucked Ciri into bed. "He will return before morning," she whispered, "right?"

He gulped. 'Don't do that to me, child,' he begged silently. 'Don't force me to make a promise I cannot hope to keep.' For if he was honest with himself — and that he owed them both — he knew that he couldn't keep it. "He will return," he said instead. That at least, he was sure of. 'I hope,' he added silently as he closed the door behind him.

Marin was waiting for him at the foot of the stairs to the South Wing. "My lord," he said solemnly and offered him a fur-lined cloak with a humble bow.

"What-" he began but faltered at the knowing look on his face. With a silent nod he accepted the warm garment and pulled it tight around his shoulders.

"You won't be disturbed, my lord, if you do not wish so," the captain of his guard said quietly. "Though I do advise you not to wait up for too long."

A pained grimace twisted his face and he walked to the stairs leading to the battlements. "I thank you for your concern, Marin," he answered, "though how I spend my nights is my business and mine alone."

He had already climbed the first few steps when he heard Marin's voice behind him again: "A counsel from a soldier, then, my lord?"

He halted and waved his hand as a sign for him to continue.

"It's always the young ones who suffer most. It's them we need our strength for, not ourselves." There was the tiniest of pauses as if he was waiting for a response. "Do not light the torches. They will blind you to the night."

He nodded slowly. "Marin?"

"My lord?"

"Come and fetch me before it gets too late, will you?" With that he hurried up the stairs, catching the last rays of the setting sun before darkness nestled itself into the world around him.

He didn't know how much time of staring into the empty night had passed before Marin joined him on the rampart. He felt like falling asleep on his feet when the captain of the guard informed him quietly: "It's time for the second watch."

He would have liked to stay, he really would but he knew it was no use. Morning would come soon and Ciri would surely wake at dawn. And then he'd need his strength. 'Alright,' he conceded as he settled in for the night, 'maybe I am a bit worried.'

After that fifth day, time didn't seem to pass at all anymore. The days were dripping by ever so slowly, him and Ciri both sitting on the window ledge in his study, neither of them able to focus on anything but the growing concern that wormed itself into their minds and consumed their hearts. It had started raining, too, as if the sky was mocking their worries. He would have laughed if the situation wasn’t that dire. Even the most trustworthy road grew treacherous in the rain, he knew from experience, and the roads to Saltwall were anything but that. It was agony. It was torture. He was at his wits' end.

Oh, how he wished a shrieking Janina to be his biggest problem again.

Because now, he was sitting in the oriel window with a sniffling Ciri in his lap, watching the sun set on the ninth day after Geralt had left and the witcher was still nowhere in sight.

"Jaskier-," she whined and he felt his heart break even more.

He hugged her closer. "I know, Ciri. I know." He gently pecked her on the cheek. "I know it's hard," he said quietly, "but you have to try and sleep."

She nodded weakly and let him carry her to bed. He tucked her in and swept the hair out of her face one last time. "Will you watch?" she asked as her eyes drifted shut.

"Of course I will," he croaked, unable to resist. He kissed the little girl on the forehead and slipped out the door.

He waited for a long time in the oriel above the gatehouse, his racing thoughts and nightmarish imagination his only company. He cursed his fantasy for providing him with half a thousand ways for Geralt to be lying dead in a ditch, and he cursed his virtue for abandoning him in his darkest hour. It had taken all but five sleepless nights, one little girl with a twisted ankle and innumerable unresolved disagreements for him to start worrying about Geralt again.

He hated it, every part of it. The helplessness, the fear, the anger, the guilt. The guilt most of all. ‘If we had just talked,’ he told himself, ‘if I had just forgiven him. If I had just forced him to stay. If I had just not abandoned him.’

And he wanted to hate Geralt. Hate him for everything he had done to him, everything he was still doing to him and now to Ciri, too. He really did. But try as he might, he couldn’t. That made him even angrier. That made him feel even guiltier.

It was almost morning when he finally abandoned his futile watch and returned to his chambers. When Jakub came to wake him shortly after, Jaskier was already dressed. 'He hasn't told me to stay put,' he told himself to calm his nerves. Taking two steps at a time he rushed down into the courtyard. "Wiktor," he commanded, "ready my horse."

Jaskier had waited long enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, that's that. After receiving a few comments about the progression of Geralt's and Jaskier's relationship already I feel like this is a good time to tell you that this won't be a short fic. I already said that there's no way this will be done in under 10 chapters. By the looks of it now we're rather talking 35+  
> More content for you, yay!  
> If you like this fic/chapter, leave a comment or come chat with me over at my [tumblr](https://dhwty-writes.tumblr.com/) (I'm also always taking requests)


	10. A Broken Contract

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt is away on his contract - the first one since he and Ciri arrived in Lettenhove. It is not going great. In fact, it is going very shitty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, Geralt is _not_ having a good time in this one! But I promise you, it's in a fun way, not in a whumpy way :)  
> Have fun reading!

Geralt of Rivia was feeling miserable. He was tired, soaked to the bone, and freezing. But of fucking course destiny wasn't done with him despite all that he had been through in the last four days. Why would She be? He grunted annoyed. This whole fucking contract was a bloody mess.

"Ho!" he said and lunged for the ripped reins that dangled from not-Roach's bridle. Lightning lit up the darkness and thunder roared above their heads. The wet leather slipped through his hands when the horse reared up, whinnying in blind panic.

"Fuck," he cursed and swiped his drenched hair out of his eyes just in time to see her wheel around in an attempt to flee. "Oh no, you don’t," he grunted and moved his pinkie and ring finger downwards. "Stay," he commanded and she did.

He sighed in relief and walked over to her, stroking her muzzle to calm her further. He always preferred to talk to the animals instead of using the signs. But sometimes there just wasn’t another way. "A whole pack of ghouls won't faze you," he murmured disapprovingly, "but a bit of lightning and I have to Axii you?"

He picked up the reins and inspected the damage. They were torn and the leather was frayed where she had ripped herself loose from the tree, he had tied her to. The missing piece was still flapping in the wind. 'Shit,' he thought. Normally he wouldn't have thought much about it, just stitched it up again. Roach’s reins had been torn in more than one place. But he reckoned Jaskier would have quite a lot to say about that.

'Jaskier'll have quite a lot to say about everything,' he mused as he saddled not-Roach. Somehow, he wished he was here now. It felt wrong to weather such miserable days without the bard’s constant complaining. ‘Fuck,’ he thought and tried to push the feeling away. 

Dawn had finally come, not that he could see it with the unrelenting downpour. It was the fifth day since he had left Lettenhove, and he was still half a day's ride away from Saltwall - in the wrong fucking direction. "Fuck," he told not-Roach gently, "Jaskier will have my head for this."

The mare snuffled and nudged at his shoulder.

"You're completely right," he grumbled, "Ciri'll gladly serve him my heart on a platter." He groaned internally. Shit, Jaskier had rubbed off on him with the dramatics.

There wasn't much he could do about it, though. So, Geralt miserably began his day, leading not-Roach while he himself waded through the mud. He could only hope that the muck was the washed out remains of the dirt track that would lead him back to Saltwall and not another path entirely.

His hope was growing slimmer with every passing minute, though. Even after a whole day of walking he still hadn't reached the small brook he remembered as a landmark. He was pretty fucking sure he'd lost his way somewhere. And it was still raining.

It was getting darker, though, so he stopped for the night. He freed not-Roach from her saddle but didn't even attempt to rub her dry. There wasn't anything dry to dry her with _left_. He cursed as he discovered that even the loaf of bread had gotten drenched. So, it was mouldy bread from now on if he couldn't hunt anything. Sulkily he tossed the bread back into a bag without the decaying ghouls' heads. The rain didn't make them smell any sweeter either.

He tried lighting a fire with Igni and was even halfway successful: there were flames, at least. For half an hour. With a stream of filthy curses that made even not-Roach move further away from him, he settled down against a tree and tried to sleep. When that failed, he managed to meditate for a few hours.

At least the pouring had reduced itself to a drizzle when they set out again in the morning. A small mercy, he thought.

Two hours passed and he nearly missed the brook. 'Miss' wasn't quite right. Rather, he nearly turned around again. Because what had been a gentle rivulet trickling merrily through the countryside three days ago was now a raging torrent.

"Fuck!" he cursed loudly when he picked up a splintered plank of what must've belonged to the wooden bridge he had crossed. It had been old, creaking with each of his steps, so it wasn't like he was surprised. Still. "Fuck," he repeated for good measure.

Childishly he kicked the plank into the stream. He knew that it was no use but he didn't care. "Of fucking course," he roared and not-Roach reared her head in agreement. He decided then and there that he despised Redania.

"I'm never taking a contract here again," he grumbled grouchily and tugged on not-Roach's reins turning upstream in the hopes of finding a passage there. "I better hope the pay's good at least." 

In any other case he might've considered walking into the opposite direction, payment and reputation be damned. He always could find another contract elsewhere. But that just wasn't an option. Unlike any other time, there were people waiting for him to return. They were waiting for him to return before sunset, to be precise.

He knew that it was impossible. He'd known it from the moment it had started raining. Still, it was frustrating to spend the better part of one day trying to find another ford and then the rest of it to try and get back to the direction he was actually headed. Geralt cursed every higher being in this world for his terrible luck.

At least it had stopped raining.

The next morning it was raining again. It had begun in the crack of dawn with a mean drizzle that prickled like needles and had varied between light rain and full on downpours for the better part of the afternoon. And the ghouls' heads were reeking. By now Geralt was seriously considering throwing them away, skipping the pay, and just returning to Lettenhove straight away.

He was just contemplating this again when a young distressed voice distracted him: "'Scuse me! 'Scuse me, mister! Please don' go walkin' on!"

"What?" Geralt growled and turned to see a small child running towards him, almost as drenched as he was. "What do you want, boy?"

"I'm no boy!" the girl answered. "An' I need your help! My Pa's wagon slipped off the road, straight into the ditch, y'know, an' we can't get it out again."

"Hmm," Geralt made.

"Please, mister, we've been here for hours! My Ma'll be so cross at us, she'll shout an' everythin' if we're not home at sundown."

He scowled as angrily as he could. He had no time for backwater farmers whose wagons broke. He needed to get home himself and he knew he could count himself lucky if there was only one shouting person waiting for him. But instead of backing off the girl drew closer and tugged on his hand. "Please, mister," she said again.

'Fuck,' he thought. "Where?" he asked.

Her face lit up and she tugged on his hand again. "Over there! Come, mister, I'll show ya!"

He hesitated for a moment, calculating his chances that there was a band of robbers waiting around the bend. 'Fuck it,' he decided. His life was miserable enough already, he might actually enjoy killing someone if they tried to mug him.

To his surprise, they did not. When he followed the girl, there actually was a man struggling with a cart. "Pa!" the girl shouted and let go of his hand. "Pa, the mister says he's gonna help us!"

The man tugging at the bridle of the farm horse let go and wiped sweat and rain from his brow. "Well done, Mara. Now, see here, mis- oh."

His gaze flickered over the medallion resting against his chest to the two swords on his back. "Hm," Geralt made and steeled himself for the vinegar sour stench of fear that would surely come. "You want my help or not?"

"I heard a witcher lifts twice as heavy as a normal man," the farmer said.

"You heard right."

"Jolly good! Then we'll have the cart out in no time!"

Geralt quirked a sceptical eyebrow at the odd behaviour of the man and his daughter but didn't say a thing as he tied not-Roach to a tree. "Stay," he ordered and jumped down into the gutter.

"How's it look down there?" the farmer asked.

"Well enough," Geralt answered. He knew little of carts but as far as he could tell neither the wheels nor the axle were broken. The wagon was just stuck in the mud and the horse couldn't pull it out by itself. "I'll lift it, then you should be able to get it out."

"On three," the farmer agreed. "One." Geralt jammed his shoulder underneath the cart. "Two." He pressed his feet into the mud. "Three." With a groan he lifted it.

He couldn't tell what the farmer was doing but there were some very angry words, a horrified gasp from Mara, and then the cart was gone and Geralt fell face first into the mud.

"Fuck!" He shouted loudly as he got up.

"My Ma says-" Mara began but her father put his hand on her shoulder.

"No, sweetie," he interrupted her gently, "today’s the day for cuss words."

“Really?” she asked with wide eyes. “Can I say one, too?” When her father nodded, she shouted as loud as she could: “Bollocks!”

Geralt wiped the mud from his face with his equally muddy shirt and growled in frustration. "Guess your load is ruined," he said as he looked at the goods strewn around him.

"Pity that," the farmer said and offered him a hand to climb out of the gutter again, "but at least we didn't lose the cart. And not everything fell off. My name's Anton, by the way."

"Geralt," he answered.

"Geralt," Anton repeated. "Thank you. And sorry for the-" he gestured at all of him.

"You look worse than Sam! And smell jus' as bad," Mara helpfully offered. "That's our pig," she added at his confused look. "Sam the Ham."

"Hm," Geralt hummed.

"Pa says I shouldn' name him, cos we've to eat him. But I did it anyway! I named our chickens, too, and-"

"Mara," Anton said softly and, thankfully, she shut up. To Geralt, he said: "Stay with us for the night? In exchange for your troubles."

Geralt blinked stupidly. "I'm a witcher," he informed him.

Anton snorted. "I know. That make you waterproof?"

He scowled in confusion. "No."

"Then stay. Can't offer you a bed but a barn for you and your horse, a hot meal, and a fire to dry your clothes."

"Hmm," he sounded, contemplating it. He probably shouldn't, he'd lost enough time already. If he hurried, he'd still get paid today. "How far from here to Saltwall?"

"Three hours if you're lucky. But not with this weather." He crossed his arms. "You got a room there?"

"No."

"Then it's settled." Anton went to sit on the cart. "Come here, Mara."

Mara didn't move. "Can I ride on your horse?" she asked with wide eyes. "I've never ridden a horse before. Only Sam the Ham and he’s a terrible horse, y’know?"

"Don't be impolite, Mara," Anton said the same moment that Geralt answered: "Not mine."

"Still. Can I ride it?"

"Her," he answered as he untied not-Roach's reins. He glanced at her father, who nodded slowly. "Come here," he told her and she ran over eagerly. She squealed as he grabbed her around the waist and deposited her in not-Roach's saddle. "Hold onto the horn," he ordered her and shortened the stirrups. "Don't squeeze your thighs. Don't move your legs at all." She wanted to grab the reins and he quickly pulled them back. "No."

Mara pouted but didn't say a thing as they made their way down the washed-out road.

"A mighty fine horse you got there," Anton remarked.

"Hmm. It was a loan."

"Has she got a name?" Mara asked eagerly.

"Not from me."

Her face fell and her father quickly carried on: "And what sort of friend you got to give you that kinda loan?"

"The Viscount de Lettenhove." He hesitated for a moment. "Not a friend, though."

"Master Julian?” Anton asked eagerly. “Is he well?"

"He is. You know him?"

"Ran away as a lad once. We found him after two days o' walkin'. Famished, poor boy's never gone hungry before. Our kitchen table's as far has he got before his Lordship's men found him."

Geralt frowned. "So, I'm back on Lettenhove soil?"

Anton laughed heartily. "Barely."

"Hmm," Geralt made but the farmer kept on talking: "Just over the border, we are. It's a nice place, though, innit? Y'should see it in spring. That's how we found the lad, that is. He was sittin' here with his lute, singin' away. Head in the clouds, that one, more luck than common sense. He was 'admirin' the wonders of nature and turnin' them into songs' or somethin'. Always was weird like that, the lad, he was. Ne'er quite at home up in the Hall."

"Hmm." Geralt wasn't about to dispute that.

"You've known him for long?"

"Sixteen years."

"Cor..." Mara said. "That's a lot o' years."

"He ever found that home he was lookin' for?" Anton inquired.

Geralt shrugged. "Suppose not. He's back, isn't he?"

"Still composing? Still wishin' to be a bard?"

'No,' he wanted to answer. 'He doesn't need to wish for what he already has. Half a dozen gross of ballads he’s written about me, and I repaid him with scorn.' Instead he said: "Rarely." 

"Pity. He wasn't half bad. What were you even doin' out there?"

"Killed the ghouls in the woods. On the other side of the river."

"Really?" Mara leaned down eagerly and he quickly caught her by the shoulder to keep her from falling. "You can do that?"

He shrugged. "It's my job."

"Cor... How'd you do that?"

"With my sword."

"All on your own? How much were there?"

"How many," Geralt corrected without thinking. All three of them gaped for a moment when they realised what he had just said. Not-Roach snickered.

"Well, how _many_ were there?" Mara crossed her arms defiantly.

Geralt sighed in defeat and began telling the story. 'No use trying to resist.' He had plenty of experience with impertinent brats after all. This one wasn’t a noble one at least.

The sun set when Anton finally interrupted the never-ending stream of questions from his daughter. "Ho!" He pulled on the horse's reins and pointed at a pitiable house. "Well, this is us. Ida!" He jumped from the cart as Geralt helped Mara from not-Roach's saddle. "Ida, come outside."

A portly woman stepped outside who promptly began fussing over Geralt. She quickly herded him inside and made him accept a dry set of clothes from Anton that almost fit. She made a pouting Mara scrub the dirt from his shirt while he himself scrubbed himself clean with a bar of crude soap.

In the end he was glad that he accepted the invitation. Ida was not what he would call a great cook, but he preferred any hot meal with ale to mouldy bread and rain water. He slept in the barn with not-Roach, the horse, and Sam the Ham. But, the hay was soft and the spare quilt Ida had forced on him was warm and dry. He couldn't complain. He shouldn’t complain, truly. But still, curled up in the hay, he found himself wishing for Ciri to be there. ‘Or better yet,’ his mind supplied, ‘Jaskier.’ 

He surely would have him smiling by now with his exaggerations and his songs and his japes. ‘He also would keep me awake,’ he thought grumpily. And, somehow, he missed that, too.

The next morning, his clothes were still warm from drying over the fire the whole night. Despite his protests, he was sent on his way with breakfast and a fresh loaf of bread.

"Nonsense!" Anton insisted. "I won't hear no complaints about our hospitality from no-one."

"Especially not Master Julian," Ida added. "Say hello to him from us, will you?"

"Tell him he can come visit!" Mara pleaded. "He can sing about our trees again."

"Hmm," Geralt made. "I will. Thanks." He wanted to turn and climb into the saddle when the little girl leaped forward and hugged him impulsively. He patted her head awkwardly until she let go.

"Goodbye, Geralt-Witcher!" Mara called after him as he rode away. "An' thanks!"

He reached the miserable hamlet that barely deserved the denomination town at midday — still dry by some miracle.

He stopped the first person that walked past him and brusquely asked: "The alderman?"

The quivering man pointed him in the general direction of the biggest house in the town. Geralt didn't bother with knocking and just followed the scent of fresh food. He found the alderman at lunch, the table groaning beneath the heavy platters.

He grunted in disgust and tossed the bag with the ghouls' heads straight onto his plate. "I'll have my pay now."

"Witcher!" the alderman yelped and leapt to his feet. "What do you think you're _doing_?"

"I'll have my pay now," he repeated. "And then I'll be out of this shitty town."

"You can't-"

Geralt growled and the alderman quickly took some steps backwards.

"R-right," he stammered, fumbling with the coin purse on his belt. "Here!" He threw it onto the table.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Geralt growled and stared down at it. "That's all?" He didn't need to count it to know that it was nowhere near the agreed payment.

"It's all we have to spare," that lying, cheating bastard of an alderman said, standing before his table that was almost breaking beneath its heavy load. "It was only a couple of necrophages. Besides, you're late, witcher."

"It wasn't only a couple of necrophages, it was a whole fucking nest of ghouls I cleaned out for you."

The alderman crossed his arms defiantly. "Be on time next time, and you get your full pay."

Geralt was half of a mind to tell him that there wouldn’t be a next time. That no witcher of the school of the wolf would ever come to sort out his problems again. But he couldn't risk aggravating Jaskier's neighbours against the viscount. That was no way to thank his host. "I wouldn't have been late if the rain hadn't washed your decayed bridge away."

"Now don't get cocky with me, witcher," the alderman bristled. "I'm not scared of you."

"Hmm," Geralt made and stepped closer.

The man shrunk back a bit. "It's almost winter. You can't rob a man in winter."

With an annoyed grunt he snatched the purse up and left the house again. "Come on, not-Roach," he grumbled and tugged on her reins, "back to Lettenhove." He had gotten paid less for more, so he really shouldn't complain. It wasn't like he needed that money at the moment anyways. 'Still would have been nice to not set out dirt poor in spring.'

The ride back to Lettenhove went better than expected, all things considered. Well, at least better than the rest of his journey. The road was slowly drying up again, so they made better time. Still, he hadn't even reached the main road before the darkness forced him to make camp.

Come morning there were finally no storm clouds looming overhead anymore. Geralt rode at an almost leisurely pace and found himself enjoying the last warm sun rays of the year.

He had no illusions of reaching Lettenhove before the next day. One and a half days, it had taken him to get to Saltwall — with good weather. He knew he might make it if he pushed not-Roach and himself to the point of exhaustion and beyond. But he was already late. A few hours would make no difference, he figured.

When he woke on the tenth day there was a thick layer of frost covering the floor. The cold seeped through his bedroll and he had no qualms about getting up and moving.

He hadn't gotten far when the rapid sounds of hooves alerted him. There was another rider coming his way, bent low over his horse’s neck and pushing the poor animal to a breakneck speed. 'Poor thing,' he thought.

He tried to pull not-Roach out of the way but to his surprise the rider slowed his horse right in front of him. "Geralt!" he exclaimed.

Geralt blinked. "Jaskier?" he asked dumbfounded. Then, relief washed over him. If he hadn’t been in not-Roach’s saddle, he would have hugged him. Instead he smiled at him.

"What are you doing here?" they asked at the same time.

The viscount regained his voice first: "What the fuck, Geralt? You were due to arrive back home almost a week ago!" Anger was plain on his face, yet the vinegar stench of fear overpowered any spicy rage. Geralt’s face fell as he remembered that the Jaskier he had longed for was gone. "Where were you? What kept you? Shit, Ciri is worried out of her mind for you! I-"

"It wasn't my fault!" Geralt interrupted him sharply. "I can't control the damn weather, can I?"

"Ten days, Geralt! Ten fucking days! You said four, five at most! It was necrophages you're fighting, not a griffin or something. You can kill those in your sleep!"

"Had wrong information," he grumbled.

"You- I- _what_?! From whom?"

"The alderman. He said two or three ghouls. Got a dozen of them."

"Fuck," Jaskier muttered.

"Hm," Geralt agreed.

The viscount sighed and ran a trembling hand across his face. The stench of fear grew fainter. "Well, let's head back, shall we?"

Geralt said nothing in response but simply nudged not-Roach forward in the direction Jaskier had come from. He knew the questions would come soon enough. They always did.

After half an hour of silence he discovered that the questions did not come. After an hour he decided that the quiet was just as maddening. "The rain started on the fourth day," he informed him unbidden. "Was awful. Took the whole fucking road with it. Next day I nearly missed the river because the bridge was gone too. Took me one whole day to walk around. Then, I found a farmer with a cart stuck in the mud. Told me to greet you. Anton, his name was. And he had a wife. Ida."

Jaskier nodded. "I remember. They were kind to me."

"That's about it," he concluded.

"Sounds like quite the journey." Geralt turned to look at Jaskier, expecting to see the same wistful look in his eyes that he always had when Geralt spoke of his adventures without him. Instead, he was stone faced.

He didn't understand why that hurt so much. "It was."

"Well," Jaskier sighed, "Janina will be glad that you returned Dancer safe and sound to her."

Geralt frowned in confusion. "Who's Dancer?"

That got a reaction from him: "Who- I- the horse!" Jaskier stammered. "The horse you took without consulting me first, you moron!"

"Hmm," he made and tugged on not-Roach's reins to catch her attention. "Could've told me," he said to her. To Jaskier he said: "You said to take any I want."

"Yes, of course, but- wait, what have you been calling her if not Dancer?"

"Not-Roach," he replied. To him that was obvious.

Jaskier gaped. "Unbelievable," he muttered and laughter bubbled from his lips before he bit down hard on his lip. Geralt smelt blood. 

“My lord,” he said slowly, “I am sorry.”

“For being late?” He scoffed. “You better be.”

“No.” He hesitated. “Well, for that, too. I’m sorry for what I said before I left. You- you were right. It was dangerous. I should’ve taken better care of Ciri.”

Jaskier gaped at him. “Huh,” he said surprised, “Never thought I’d see the day… Well, anyways," he sucked the blood from his lower lip. "I trust that you were justly compensated for your inconvenience?"

"Eighty crowns." He had counted them after all.

Jaskier tugged sharply on his reins. Not-not-Roach snickered in protest but stood still regardless. " _Excuse me_?"

He brought not-Roach to a halt, too. "Got eighty crowns from that bastard."

He clicked his tongue in disapproval. "Now that just won't do."

Geralt snorted quietly. "Don't trouble yourself, my lord. It's not worth it."

Defiance gleamed in Jaskier's eyes. "Oh no, witcher," he said icily, "you don't get to order me around anymore." The bitterness in his voice made Geralt flinch. "Sixteen years I held my tongue when you were denied pay, bed, and board alike. Do _not_ think that that was easy."

He couldn't restrain himself: "Held your tongue? I seem to remember quite a lot of first fights and tavern brawls with your involvement, my lord," Geralt said and ducked his head to hide his smirk.

"Don't flatter yourself, witcher, they were hardly about you."

He scoffed. They both knew that was a lie. "What are you even going to do?"

Jaskier clicked his tongue and began to ride again. "I suppose that entirely depends on how he chooses to answer my first letter."

A smile danced around Geralt's lips. "My lord?" he called after him.

He turned in the saddle. "My witcher?"

"Please don't kill him."

Jaskier wrinkled his nose as if the simple request were a terribly foul meal. "I'll consider it," he said and spurred his horse into a trot. "Don't get your hopes up, though."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo, that was the resolution of how Geralt turned out to be so incredibly late! What do you think of it? This was a real pain in the ass to write. I've literally written ten different opening scenes before settling for this one, so I really hope it was worth it, lmao  
> Feel free to leave a comment or come over to my [tumblr](http://https://dhwty-writes.tumblr.com) to come chat with me (tho I will be slow in responding, I'm going on a little vacation).  
> Next week we'll be back with Chapter 10: The Contrast of Compassion and Contempt and Jaskier struggling with his conflicting feelings for Geralt after his witcher's return.


	11. The Contrast of Compassion and Contempt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt is back at Lettenhove Hall and Jaskier is coping. Or at least trying to, as both Geralt and Ciri do their best to shatter the fragile balance on a razor blade that defines their relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a surprisingly easy chapter to write, given that I had absolutely no idea what was supposed to happen until I wrote it. Here's to hoping it won't mess up the timeline.

The alderman of Saltwall was a fool and a bloody coward, too. Jaskier was very pleased to discover that - so pleased, in fact that he greeted Geralt with a smile on his face when the witcher trudged into his study.

"'To The Right Honourable The Viscount Lettenhove, Julian Alfred Pankratz'," he recited as he leaned against his desk, crossing his ankles, "'I offer to you my sincerest apologies for the recent misunderstanding. It is my deepest regret to relay to you that the honoured Master Geralt of Rivia' — do you hear that, Geralt, I quite like the sound of it — 'indicated in no way that he was affiliated with you' — oh, fun, that's some fodder for the rumour mill." He cleared his throat and read on: "'I assure you, it was not my intention to slight you or yours. In hopes of amending this misstep, I send to you and your witcher this recompensation consisting of three hundred crowns.' Melitele's tits, Geralt, what on earth was the agreed sum?" Jaskier tossed him the coin purse.

"Hundred and fifty," he replied and weighed the purse in his hand. "I assume you want half of it?"

He dismissed him with a wave of his hand. "Keep it. This is much better, listen to this: 'I trust that no bad blood remains between us, as you are one of my most esteemed neighbours.' That's the best he could come up with? Ridiculous. But wait, here comes the best part: 'Also, I extend the humble invitation to you and your household to come and dine with my wife and me in Saltwall.'" He lowered the parchment and grinned widely. "What do you think, Geralt? Should we accept? I'd love to see his face when I show up with the sixty-odd members of my household."

Geralt huffed what could almost be a laugh. "Fuck, J- my lord. What did you write in your first letter to get that kind of response?"

"Oh, that was easy," he said almost bored. "I politely informed him that you were there on my orders, and that I am greatly displeased with the lack of financial compensation for your hard work. I also reminded him that his liege and I had studied in Oxenfurt together, and that I am soon due to visit my old friend, who would surely be interested in his activities. Oh, and I might have implied that I slept with his unmarried sister."

Now he was certain that Geralt was laughing. "Poor man. He had no idea what he'd gotten himself into."

"What can I say? I am a master of my craft." He bowed with a flourish.

When he straightened his back again, Geralt was rolling his eyes fondly. "You're incorrigible."

"Maybe so," he allowed the teasing. "It gets me what I want, though." 

"Hmm," Geralt made and crossed his arms. "And what's that?"

An icy hand gripped his heart. 'I told you,' his mind screamed. 'I asked you to come with me. And you walked away.' But that had been a lifetime ago. "Well, that depends." Jaskier forced his expression to go blank. "Primarily, though, none of your business."

"Right. I'm sorry, my lord." He could tell Geralt was mocking him.

Still, he answered: "You are forgiven, my witcher."

They were silent for a bit, Jaskier unwilling to budge first. To his everlasting joy, Geralt caved. He talked a lot since their reunion - comparably at least. Jaskier enjoyed this development immensely. "Are you going to accept the invitation?"

"I'm thinking about it. It would be rather satisfying to have that bastard bowing and scraping to you, wouldn't it? That would teach him."

"Hmm," Geralt made. "Or he'd be twice the arse to the next witcher to get back at you."

Jaskier frowned deeply. "No, you're completely right. That would be awful, we won't do that." His fingers danced to a rapid rhythm on the desk while thoughts chased each other through his mind. Then, thankfully, one of them slowed down enough for him to grasp it. "Oh, that's better still!" He wheeled around, pulling parchment and a quill from his desk, and started penning the response.

He'd written one and a half pages already when he was startled from the daze he was in: "What are you writing?" Geralt asked and peered over his shoulder. Jaskier very nearly dropped his quill. The witcher was close enough that he could feel his breath against the back of his neck and the heat radiating from his body. A shiver ran down his spine, and Jaskier wasn't quite sure if it was pleasant or not. Geralt reached out and moved the page he was writing on, to better examine the one beneath it. He didn't retract his arm just yet, though, but put his hand next to Jaskier's hip, leaning on the desk, and thus greatly restricting his movement.

Once he would have rejoiced for any chance to get this close to the witcher when he wasn't gravely injured or dying. Now, it made his skin crawl. Jaskier scarcely dared to move, but turned his head to see Geralt frown. "What?" Jaskier asked, amused.

"Is it some kind of joke? I don't get it."

He snorted a laugh. "Yes, witcher, it is. You should ask your daughter about it, she'd understand it." The frown on his face deepened beyond what seemed humanly possible and Jaskier quickly kept on talking: "It's an insult, you see? 'As pleased as I am to get invited to the famed court of Saltwall, it would greatly trouble me to infringe upon your winter stores. Though, I do have plans to visit my brother-in-law in Goldfurt this winter and should be overcome with joy to meet you there to renew our fleeting acquaintance.' It's-" He waved his hand impatiently. "It's a reminder that visiting Saltwall is beneath me and that I have better options. It's also a remark on the fact that he wanted to scam you claiming he didn't have enough. And a whole lot of other things. Would take some time to pick all of that apart."

"Hmm. Not looking forward to seeing him in Goldfurt, though."

"What makes you think you'll be in Goldfurt?" he teased him and snickered when his face fell. "Don't worry, witcher, it's another taunt. The Earl of Goldfurt would never invite someone as insignificant as the alderman of Saltwall. No danger of us running into him there."

A smile tugged at his lip. "Clever."

"Compliments will get you nowhere," he scolded, a bit more harshly than strictly needed, perhaps. He waved his hand dismissively. "Go now. I have unfinished business to attend to."

Geralt sighed and leaned in a hairbreadth closer before pushing off the desk. "As my lord commands."

Only when the door closed behind him, Jaskier could breathe freely again. His knees gave out beneath him and he dropped onto his chair like a puppet whose strings have been cut. He ran a shaky hand over his face, trying desperately to sort his thoughts again. This was not good. First the worry, now the nervousness… This was not good at all.

It wasn't exactly as if being close to Geralt was unpleasant, quite the contrary. It was just that it was unbidden. Unwanted. Undeserved.

He had left all of those feelings behind him on that mountain. With his return to Lettenhove, he had rid himself of all his silly fancies in order to become the pretty, tame little songbird his parents had craved all along.

After everything they'd been through, it felt wrong. It was so awfully familiar when it shouldn't be. It probably would be easy to just act as if nothing had happened. To fall back into that familiar pattern of teasing each other, maybe even something _more_ and yet-

Jaskier couldn’t pretend the mountain hadn’t happened. He couldn’t pretend he hadn’t returned to the place he had vowed to shun of the rest of his life, and that he couldn’t leave again. He couldn’t pretend he hadn’t spent ten long months nursing a broken heart over someone who had never been his in the first place, that he hadn’t heard a word from Geralt for one and a half years - that had never happened before, not in sixteen years. He couldn't just _forget_ that he had offered up his soul up on that mountain and that there still hadn't been so much as a talk about it, much less an apology. And he certainly couldn’t pretend that it was all fine.

Silence would be easy. Silence would be what they'd always done. They'd never talked about the djinn, never talked about Cintra, about any of the times when Geralt had broken his heart without even knowing. His conversation with Ciri came to his mind. That wasn't making up. That was suffering in silence. And he was done with that.

He stood and straightened his doublet. 'No,' he decided. Until they actually talked, there would be no repeat performance of whatever had just happened.

It was later that day when Jaskier almost fell to his death down the stairs of his tower as a giggling quartet of children raced past him. "Stop right there!" The Viscount shouted, and three of the four followed his command immediately. "What is it I have to see here?" He caught Ciri by the scruff of her neck. "What do you think you're doing, cousin?"

She giggled and writhed in his grasp. "Jaskier!" The three serving girls stared at her as if she'd grown a second head and one of them even mouthed 'Don't!' in warning. "We're just playing, let go of me already!"

He eyed the others warily, who quickly averted their gaze. They were certainly not company fit for the heiress to the Cintran throne. "Beggin' your pardon, m'lord," one of them. They made her happy, though.

"That's not what I mean," he said not unkindly. "I am talking to _you_ , young lady, and about your foot."

"My foot is fine," she insisted. She pulled up her skirts and wriggled it around to prove it. "See?"

"Hmm," he said. "Did you talk to Wera about it?"

"I did!" she insisted. "She said it would be fine if I didn't jump and run around too much."

"And you think sprinting up my staircase is within the determined parameters?"

She looked up at him with large eyes. "Please, Jaskier," she begged. "Please let me play a bit longer. Only today."

'Oh,' he realised as a cruel fist clenched around his heart. 'She's lonely.' And how could he deny her when he had suffered the same strangling solitude of these cold grey halls for so long? "It's alright," he said and gently stroked her hair. "Run along now, we'll talk later."

Later turned out to be two days later after he had weathered another disagreement with Geralt — gods, as soon as the door closed behind the witcher he couldn't even remember what it had been _about_ anymore. In that moment, he had understood the urge to batter something with a sword very well. He didn't follow through with it, though. He would most likely only make a fool of himself.

Instead he buried himself in his work. It had just been an excuse for the alderman at first, but the letter he had written had gotten him thinking. He probably should reconnect with his old friends from Oxenfurt — most were bards, just like he had been, but some held their own lands now. 'The jolly days of our youth are past,' he thought bitterly, 'we have to settle down if we don't want to die as we lived: strolling minstrels in an unmarked grave.'

So, he had begun writing them again, inquiring about fiancées he'd seduced and brother's he'd bedded, racking his brain for any kind of information about them besides their relatives he'd spent lovely nights with. He couldn't come up with a lot. He only hoped there would be some kind of payoff for all the trouble.

When he was just trying to remember the name of a particularly handsome set of twins he’d met at a ball once, Ciri walked in without even knocking. "Hello, Jaskier," she greeted him and hopped onto one of the side tables.

"Hello, Ciri," he answered, continuing to write his letter. He was almost done when he noticed that his study was silent safe for the scratching of his quill — the usual chatter that began as soon as Ciri walked through a door suspiciously missing. He put the quill down and tilted his head. "Are you quite alright, darling girl?"

She shrugged and stared down onto her dangling feet. 'Oh-oh,' he thought, 'that's not good.'

"What's the matter, Ciri, talk to me," he beckoned. When she still did not answer he continued: "Are you unhappy?"

"That's not it," she said quietly.

"Then what is?"

"I think Geralt is sad," she admitted finally.

"Oh?" Jaskier stood and moved to sit on the edge of his desk. "Why do you think so?"

"I think he is sad that he can't train me like he did before anymore. He kept talking about how it all reminded him of Kaer Morhen. He doesn't do that anymore. He's also very grumpy." Before he could say anything, she held up a hand to shut him up — a gesture she seemed to have picked up from him — and continued: "Even grumpier than usual."

"Even grumpier?" he asked incredulously. "Dear girl, you have to be mistaken. That cannot be possible."

"It is!" she whined. More quietly she added: "Make it stop."

Whatever clever remark he had prepared died on his lips. She sounded so earnestly, so heartbroken, so- "Alright," he heard himself say. "I'll make it right again."

"Great!" she answered. Grinning widely, she pecked him on the cheek before running off again. He stared after her for a long time, wondering what on earth had possessed him to make such a promise he couldn't hope to keep.

It was almost time for dinner when he finally came up with a plan and made his way to the guardroom. "Evening," he greeted the gathered men cheerily. There were about five of them, gathered around a table where Geralt and Borys were engaged in a round of Gwent. They didn't even look up, eyes on the cards and the pile of gold between them. "Is Marin here?"

"In his room, m'lord," one of the others, whose name Jaskier couldn't recall, answered.

He nodded his thanks and made his way up the short flight of stairs to the Captain of the Guard's room. Without knocking he opened the door. Marin was sat on a stool, bent over a tarnished mirror, and shaving with a rather blunt razor. 'Should I increase the salary, maybe?' Jaskier wondered, but that was a thought for another time. He cleared his throat quietly.

Marin nicked himself and cursed loudly before turning to see who it was. "My lord!" He leapt to his feet and knocked the stool over in the process. "I didn't-"

"Relax, Marin," he said tiredly, "and sit down again, for Melitele's sake, She knows you deserve the rest."

"Right," he said warily and righted the chair, still hesitant to sit while Jaskier was standing. Instead of waiting out the internal debate of his Captain, he simply sat down on the shaky desk in the corner. Finally, Marin did as he had told him. "Why exactly are you here, my lord?"

"I wanted to thank you," he answered honestly. "For your advice, when-" his voice broke without his permission.

A kind smile spread on Marin's face. "You're welcome, my lord."

Jaskier wet his lips with his tongue. "I've also come to request another piece of advice."

"I'll be glad to oblige."

"How do you train your guards?" he asked bluntly.

"I- I beg your pardon? I-" Marin stuttered, clearly taken aback.

Jaskier tried not to sigh in annoyance. "No, you haven't misheard. How do you train your guards?"

"Well, there's drills. For longbows and crossbows, swords, too. Halberds, sometimes. I teach some of the lads how to ride, the most promising ones. And I have them trek through the forest with heavy bags. That’s about it."

"Hm," he said and frowned deeply. 'That's not exactly what I'm looking for here.' He took a moment before continuing: "And, theoretically, if you wanted to train their reflexes as well as their agility, how would you go about that?"

Marin raised his eyebrows. "Theoretically?" he parroted.

"Theoretically," Jaskier confirmed.

Slowly, he said: "Theoretically, as in... similar to balancing on railings or barrels?"

"Theoretically, yes."

"In that case, theoretically, I guess I'd build a structure I could put my trust in. Not too high above the ground, I'll wager. Beams and monkey bars, even a quintain or two, maybe. It would train her reflexes to respond to unexpected blows — theoretically, of course. And I'd definitely pad the floor with something soft. Bales of straw or something.."

"Hm." Now that was something he could work with. Well, not Jaskier himself necessarily, he'd definitely need help for that. "And, theoretically, could you draw the plans for that?"

Marin seemed to consider the idea for a moment. "Theoretically, I could."

"Good man."

"I'll have them by you within the week, my lord."

Jaskier flashed him a bright smile and opened the door. "I'm looking forward to it," he said with a wink, "theoretically."

He went back down to the guardroom and was greeted by wolf whistles by some of the older guards who he had known in his youth. 'When did the boys I grew up and trained with become the older guards?' he wondered absentmindedly. Geralt was still playing Gwent, although with another opponent.

"And what business did you have with the Captain, Master Julian?" Borys asked with a lewd grin.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" he replied and made a show of blowing him a kiss.

The wolf whistles grew loud again and Borys laughed. "I believe I would, m'lord. Care to show me?"

His smile froze on his face. "Maybe later."

The guard sitting next to Borys jabbed him in the ribs sharply. "That's a no," he stage-whispered and the guards laughed.

Jaskier was still thinking of a smooth reply when Geralt suddenly threw down his cards and exclaimed: "Fuck!"

His opponent laughed heartily, quickly scooped up the coins between them, and hid them from Jaskier's view. Not that he cared. He still clicked his tongue disapprovingly. "Gambling away your earnings already, witcher?"

"Not anymore," he grumbled and stowed his cards away. "I'm done for today." He stood and walked over to Jaskier who regarded him with a raised eyebrow.

"Waiting for something?"

"You're blocking the door. My lord."

"Right." Jaskier reached behind himself and turned the knob. "Enjoy your evening," he called to the guards before opening the door and waving Geralt through.

As soon as the door shut behind them, the voices started up again but Jaskier couldn't tell what they were saying. Geralt, though, turned beet-red and hunched his shoulders, apparently trying to get away as fast as possible.

"What are they talking about?" Jaskier asked with amusement.

"Nothing important," Geralt muttered and held the door to the courtyard open for Jaskier. They had almost crossed it when he spoke up again: "You aren't sleeping with any of them."

"Why the sudden interest in my sex life? You only ever cared about whose pants I kept out of not whose pants I got into."

"Hmm," Geralt made and eyed him up. "I thought I knew you, my lord."

He couldn't keep from flinching. 'You did,' he wanted to tell him. 'You were the only person I didn't put on a show for. And see where that got me.' But he wasn't quite ready to lead that conversation, yet. "Well, I changed."

"I'm aware," the witcher answered. 'Why does he sound so sad?' "I'm trying to get to know you again."

He bit his tongue, almost hard enough to draw blood again. But they had reached the East Wing now and he didn't want either of his sisters to witness whatever needed to be said between them. He sighed. "No, I'm not," he answered the earlier question. “Sleeping with them, that is.”

"Will you tell me why?" Geralt opened the door for him.

"Maybe later," Jaskier answered honestly. "This is no conversation for dinner." With that he shouldered the doors to the dining room open.

"Julian!" Ciri said excitedly, who had quickly learned not to call him Jaskier in front of his sisters. She smiled brightly, and after that it was easy to get into character, grinning widely and chattering away. The princess was a very useful prop when it came to him wearing that particular mask.

"Hello, cousin," he greeted her and went to press a kiss to her forehead. "How was your training today?"

"Boring." She wrinkled her nose. "I'm not allowed to run or do cartwheels at all. Only footwork. Geralt says I'll injure my ankle again elsewise."

"And he's very right about that," he told her and took his place at the head of the table as Geralt sat down at his right. He waved his hand to signal for the servants to bring the food and continued: "Just imagine if you twisted it again, or, Melitele forbid, broke it. You wouldn't be able to leave your room for weeks on end!"

The horror on her face made him chuckle and dig into his food, too, beckoning his sisters to talk about their days. Afterwards they moved their conversation to the Fireplace Room, where Janina and Józefa took up their needlework.

"So, witcher," Józia asked after settling into a steady rhythm, "you returned from your hunt in the woods."

"I did," he agreed as he sat down in the armchair across from Jaskier.

"Tell us about it, will you?" It wasn't a question.

Geralt's glance flickered to Jaskier, as if asking for permission. He raised an eyebrow and his lips curled into the tiniest of smiles. After a moment of consideration, he raised his goblet of mulled wine to Geralt, beckoning him to carry on.

Janina snorted rudely and stood. "Forgive me, my lord," she said tersely, "but I do not think I have to listen to that. May I retire for the night?"

He swirled the wine in his cup, contemplating it. For a moment he considered telling her no — she had lost the bet, after all. Then again, he wasn't cruel. Janina had her reasons for her resentment against witchers just like he had his for his reverence. It was a topic best left untouched within Lettenhove's walls. He waved his hand dismissively and she hastily fled the scene.

"What-" Ciri began but Józefa shook her head.

"Not now, child," she said quietly. Facing Geralt she asked: "Well?"

Jaskier could basically _feel_ him grinding his teeth and was more than a little surprised when the witcher broke into the probably most detailed story about his adventures Jaskier had ever heard from his mouth. He even included details like the frankly hilarious name of the pig, Sam the Ham, he had shared a bedstead with.

When he was done, Jaskier was still feeling eerie as he always did after hearing a particularly compelling story and stood from his armchair. "Walk with me?" he asked Geralt.

The witcher looked up at him funnily. "Sure, my lord."

The night was crisp — freezing almost, and Jaskier gladly accepted the warm cloak a servant brought him hurriedly before they could climb the battlements. "My, my," he said quietly, "it seems like I'm not the only one who changed. Where's the taciturn witcher I fe-" He bit his tongue. "-I travelled with?"

"Hm," Geralt said and Jaskier was almost about to make another comment when the witcher already continued talking: "I don't know, my lord, but I was travelling with a bard named Jaskier. He might know the answer."

"You-" Jaskier gasped indignantly, fumbling for words. Geralt just raised his eyebrows. A challenge. An invitation. Jaskier was tempted to accept. But when wasn't Geralt a temptation for him? "Fine," he said curtly. "I'll ask him."

"Do tell me when you do," he leaned against the merlon as Jaskier sat down between two of them. "I'd like to have a few words with him myself."

He looked up and tilted his head, stubbornly ignoring the fluttering feeling in his gut and the song lyrics in his mind when he saw him bathed in silvery moonlight. ' _I once loved a man as white as snow / His skin was deathly pale / His hair a silvery moonlit veil / His eyes two golden suns / After decades of scorn I was once again shunned / But I loved him even so._ ' He sighed and tore his eyes away. "All in due time, witcher," he whispered, "All in due time..."

"Hm," he answered and took to staring into the night as well.

It was a strange but still familiar silence that settled between them. Once upon a time it would have been filled with chatter and songs and jabs. But still, as the white puffs of their breath mingled in the cold, Jaskier relaxed for the first time in weeks. Because that was Geralt, the White Wolf, standing beside him and he was still Jaskier the Bard somewhere deep down inside, and that still counted for something.

"It wouldn't be fair to them," Jaskier broke the silence at last.

"What wouldn't be?"

"Sleeping with them. They are sworn to me at best, my subjects and _property_ at worst. They can't refuse. It wouldn't be right. That's not the kind of lord I want to be."

"I thought you didn't want to be any kind of lord, my lord," Geralt answered and began inspecting him instead. It made Jaskier's skin crawl with unease. ' _I'm weak, my love, and I am wanting,_ ' another line came to his mind. 'Please,' he begged weakly, resisting the urge to recoil beneath the merciless glare, 'I cannot be found wanting again.'

"I don't," he said bitterly, "Alas, I already am. Might as well do my best."

"Hmm."

"My father was that kind of lord," he said without really knowing why, "my grandfather was, too. I suspect half the garrison consists of my siblings and cousins."

"He wasn't a good lord, then?"

"No,” he said quietly, “and he wasn't a good person either."

"Hmm." Finally, Geralt looked away. "At least his son turned out well enough. Don't know about you being a lord, but I know that you're not a bad person."

Jaskier blinked in surprise. "Thank you, Geralt," he said and resisted the urge to take his hand.

To his surprise it was Geralt who grasped for his fingers instead. "Hmm," he made, warming them between his palms. Jaskier ignored how his heart skipped a beat. "Get inside, my lord, and get to bed. Before you freeze to death."

"Right," he breathes, his words blowing out in the night air like the clouds of his breath. "Goodnight, witcher."

"Goodnight, my lord. Sleep well."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo, what do you think? Geralt seeking to be near Jaskier, all those hypotheticals, also Jaskier composing again... Is that... progress...? I love all your comments and I love to hear about what you think what will happen, so come chat with me in the comments or over at [tumblr](http://https://dhwty-writes.tumblr.com).  
> Next week it's time for the inevitable after A Broken Witcher and A Broken Princess: Chapter 11 - A Broken Bard. I think you can guess what that one's about.  
> EDIT: Here's an [amazing drawing](https://chiosblog.tumblr.com/post/634335237206327296/a-scene-from-chapter-11-of-the-amazing-fanfic-of) of that last scene, go check it out guys! (and all the other drawings on that blog, I am in love with all of those).


	12. A Broken Bard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is something deeply wrong about Lettenhove Hall that Geralt notices very belatedly: the complete lack of music. He confronts Jaskier about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to preface this with saying thank you! During the last week we've hit the benchmark of over 500 kudos and this is so amazing for me. Thank you so much for everyone who is reading along, leaving kudos and commenting, every single one of those makes my day! So, thank you! I hope that you will continue enjoying this fic in the future.  
> In this spirit, let's get on with the chapter! In the comments there were a lot of requests to finally let them talk. They talk. Also, there's a bath scene. Yay?

There was something deeply unsettling about Lettenhove Hall and Geralt couldn't quite put his finger on what it was. It was odd, if he was honest. He normally spent his winters in the crumbling ruin of Kaer Morhen. Lettenhove Hall was a golden palace in comparison. It wasn’t as big, of course, but instead it was what Jaskier surely would describe as ‘cozy’. It was warm and dry, filled with the hustle and bustle that came with a well-kept household.

Still, there was something off. Distressingly so. It wasn't just that the staff shot him knowing glances whenever he and Jaskier were in the same room. It wasn't just that Jaskier had grown cold again after that morning of almost-normalcy, or even that the Viscount was planning something.

Geralt knew that he was. His not-friend might have many virtues, but subtlety was not one of them. Or patience. Every day the Viscount rode out into the forest for some reason or another. And he was always whispering to Ciri, both of them bouncing on the balls of their feet as they were conspiring. As if he wouldn't notice. Still, he let them. They were allowed to have fun.

But that wasn't what unnerved him. Geralt was certain that it was something else entirely, something important that was  _ missing _ . Something important that  _ he _ was missing. If only he could remember what it was.

Realisation dawned on him one morning, about one week after his return from the hunt. Ciri was already up, bouncing excitedly on the balls of her feet when he told her that they could start training in earnest again. She yelped gleefully and hugged him tightly before rushing down the stairs of the tower.

A small smirk spread on his face when he heard her quietly singing the chorus of Toss a Coin to Your Witcher — he had taught her when she had begged him to. It wasn't the same as learning it from Jaskier himself, of course. Geralt’s voice was rough and untrained and he had needed a few tries before he didn't stumble over the words anymore. But it warmed his heart, really, to hear her do something as mundane as singing a plain tune. It was one of the simple joys of life that she’d been deprived of for the last months.

They reached the end of the stairs and Ciri reached the end of her song. " _ Give a hug to your witcher _ ," she sang loudly and launched herself at him. Geralt chuckled softly and let her cling to him while he shouldered open the door. " _ O valley of plenty! O valley of plent-  _ oh."

Everyone in the courtyard stopped dead in their tracks and stared at them in bewilderment. A pitchfork clattered to the floor, a stableboy nearly let go of not-Roach’s reins and Marta dropped the pile of clean laundry she was carrying.

"Geralt," Ciri asked, the vinegar scent of her fear spiking, "what's wrong?"

"I don't know," he confessed quietly and lowered her to the ground. He looked around for an answer, but whoever met his gaze quickly hurried away. Even Wiktor silently shook his head and went back inside.

In the end, it was only Marta who was left, still fussing over the laundry. He strode over to her and crouched down to help. "I'm sorry," he said honestly. He was relieved that she didn't flinch from his touch. "I didn't mean to startle you."

"It- it's alright," she stammered. "It was nice to hear music again. Even if it was so short."

Geralt frowned. "There is no music in Lettenhove?" he asked stupidly. That didn't make any sense. It was Jaskier's castle, of course there would be music of all kinds- Only that there wasn't. "Shit." It hit him like a club over his head. "There is no music in Lettenhove." No music. None at all. Jaskier didn't sing, didn't play the lute, didn't even hum. The closest thing to music he'd witnessed so far were the nervous rhythms tapped out whenever Jaskier's mind started racing — he could tell when that was happening by now. But no music. Not even work songs from the washerwomen and cooks.

"Are you alright?" Marta asked worriedly.

"Wh-why not?" was all Geralt managed to stammer.

The servant glanced around as if she was waiting for something horrible to happen. Then she leaned in closely: "His lordship has forbidden it," she whispered. "He's terribly... passionate whenever he hears someone singin'."

He nodded. Jaskier was passionate about a lot of things. Somehow, he doubted that it was a good thing in this case. "We won't do it again," he promised. Just for good measure he added once more: "I'm sorry."

He got up and walked back over to Ciri who stared at him with bulging eyes. "What's wrong?"

"I'm an idiot," he growled.

"Why now?" He shot her a mean glance that had battle-hardened warriors pee their pants before. His child surprise just cackled gleefully.

Luckily, he was spared the embarrassment of an answer as the doors to the East Wing burst open. His hopeful mood sank when a sharp voice cut through the air: "Witcher!"

He turned slowly. "My lord."

"Jaskier!" Ciri shouted and ran over to him. "Have you come to watch us again?"

The Viscount smiled sadly. "Not quite. I heard you s-" He hesitated and the despicable scent of onions flared up. "I heard you."

"Did you like it?" she asked eagerly. "I changed the lyrics, did you hear?"

"I did," he answered and his voice trembled. Geralt felt a pang of guilt. "Who taught you that tune?"

"I did," Geralt answered before Ciri could. The surprise surprise flashed over his face, mingled with amusement, sadness and hurt. "Is that the only reason why you've come? My lord?"

"Not at all," the Viscount straightened his back. Geralt watched with astonishment as the stony mask of his Lord’s Face settled over his features again. He’d never get used to that. "I have come to whisk my dear cousin away. Should she be interested in receiving a very demonstrative lesson on a border dispute."

Geralt frowned. "Do you think that's safe?" 

Jaskier snorted and waved his hand. "Of course, it's safe!"

"I've heard that one before." He crossed his arms defiantly. He trusted Jaskier with his life. The Viscount wasn’t  _ stupid _ — he was about as far from stupid as they got — but in sixteen long years the bard had never displayed so much as an ounce of self-preservation. Geralt had the scars to prove it. "I remember hearing that before we got arrested in Oxenfurt, spring 1251, because four months earlier you had thought it a great idea to publish a smear poem about the Headmaster of the Academy  _ under your name _ . Or that time we were visiting an old friend of yours and we were thrown out because you had slept with his mother, his father’s mistress,  _ and _ his twin brothers. Or your innumerable shortcuts that inevitably ended us up fighting some kind of monster, or guards, or both at once. You'll forgive me if I do not trust your judgement completely."

“Now, that was  _ three _ examples, Geralt-”

The witcher growled menacingly. ‘Fucking bardlet.’

“Right!” He sighed exaggeratedly. "How many guards do I have to bring along for you to allow her to go?"

"None," Geralt answered simply. "Only me."

"No," he said decidedly. "I want to talk the man's ear off, witcher, not start a war. If I show up with you at my back, I could skip the parlay altogether and just throw my gauntlet at his feet."

He frowned deeply. "My answer's still no."

"Your answer?" Jaskier laughed hoarsely. "What gave you the impression that I was asking your permission?"

Ciri cleared her throat awkwardly, completely forgotten by the two men. "I, uh- I'd rather not go if Geralt thinks it's unwise."

He had a hard time to keep the triumphant grin off his face and judging by the strain in Jaskier's voice he was struggling just as much to keep his emotions in check: "Fine." He turned to Geralt. "Will I be able to convince you if I outline the whole dispute to you?"

"Maybe."

"Good. Come then." To Ciri he said: "Why don't you go look what Janka and Józia are up to, hm?" The girl nodded eagerly and left skipping over to the North Wing, where the Pankratz sisters were to be found at most times.

He himself followed Jaskier up to his study once again. As soon as the door shut behind them the Viscount walked over to where a map was smoothed out on a side table. "So, this is what we're dealing with...," he began talking immediately.

The Viscount de Lettenhove talked about the tensions between his viscounty and the neighbouring barony of Dergetten that were on the rise again since his father's death. He also continued to include the various disputes over the last five generations — the previous Baron of Dergetten had apparently relieved Jaskier's grandfather Julian of his left hand while his great-great-grandfather, the first Viscount Pankratz, had killed the heir of his neighbour in his time. 

“Though, I have to admit I am incredibly thankful to good old grandpapa Albert for that violent streak of his. That is what convinced the Count of Hangfelt to entrust us with this lovely castle for safekeeping. Be glad that his descendents haven’t regretted their decision yet.” 

All in all, Jaskier insisted, it was just a conversation. He would bring guards because the Baron would, too, but he claimed that they were friends.

"That's just the kind of thing province nobles do for fun," he closed his lecture with a roll of his eyes. "Not that I approve, of course. But I promise you it will be a most educational experience for dear Cousin Fiona. I learned to talk myself out of, what is it father used to call it? Ah, yes, 'aggressive negotiations'. I learned to talk myself out of 'aggressive negotiations' first, before I learned to talk myself out of almost-castrations."

Geralt frowned. "Ciri won't have to do either."

Jaskier's eyebrows shot up. "Sure," he drawled, "and how exactly did you arrive at the conclusion that  _ your  _ child surprise would lead a chaste life?"

"Hmm."

He grinned triumphantly. "So, witcher. Are you satisfied?"

"Hmm," he said again, glancing around. His gaze settled on the sword at Jaskier's hip. "If anything happens, you will use that to protect Ciri with your life," he growled. "Don't care if you can wield it or not, but you will. Do you understand, bard?"

"Viscount, but yes," his voice was solemn all of the sudden, "I understand. I mean, she would probably do a better job of protecting me by now but it won't come to that. Never. I swear."

Geralt took a deep breath. He didn't like letting Ciri go with Jaskier. It wasn't like when  _ he _ left, that was him out there in the danger. Now however... He wouldn't even be able to do anything if something happened. That was nothing short of torture. Still... "Alright," he conceded. "How long until you're back?"

"The border's not far from here. Used to be, but, well, that's another story. Two hours of riding, three maybe, then we'll spend the same time insulting each other very politely — I'm sure we'll lose at least half an hour because Ciri wants to join in, she likes that. And then we'll ride back. We'll have to see, maybe she'd like to see one of my other villages, then we'll take longer. We're also going to stop and eat at one point. So, sundown. At the very latest."

"Alright," he said again. "Fine. Have... have fun, my lord."

"I guess we will."

He shrugged and turned back to the door. After a moment of silence Jaskier added: "Geralt, wait-" They both hesitated. In the end, it was Jaskier who spoke first: "We have to stop that."

"Stop what?"

"Fighting over Ciri. Especially when she can see us."

He frowned in confusion. In Kaer Morhen the other witchers had never had any qualms about fighting before the apprentices' eyes. Even in the literal sense. "Hmm."

"It's just-" Jaskier sighed. "It's not good. Trust me on this one, Geralt, please. I know that we... We're not alright right now. And we probably won't be for a long time. But that's  _ our  _ problem. It shouldn't affect Ciri. Alright?"

"Alright," he answered quietly, his heart beating so fast it could almost pass as human. "But will we be?"

"Will we be what, witcher?"

"Alright."

He sighed heavily. "I don't know," he answered with a quivering voice. "Not if we don't work for it. Not if we don't-" He bit down on his lip. "All in due time," was what he said. What Geralt would have given to know what Jaskier was not saying.

"Hmm. Sundown you said?"

"I did."

"I'll wait for you. Good luck, my lord." He left before Jaskier had a chance to answer.

He didn't even wait for Ciri and Jaskier to leave before throwing himself into work. He changed into his stable clothes and headed downstairs but even before he could enter the stables, Wiktor stepped out, Pegasus' reins in hand.

"Here," the stablemaster said, "take him for a good long ride. Takes your mind off other things."

"Hmm." Geralt didn't protest for fear of his voice abandoning him. He just swung into the saddle and was gone when Ciri and Jaskier came to fetch Dancer and Dreamer.

Wiktor was right. He didn't have much of a choice besides concentrating on the young horse below him, still wild and eager to run free without a rider. And yet, he found his mind wandering. To Ciri, of course, and Jaskier off to their parlay.

But also back to just Jaskier, who didn’t sing anymore. He cursed himself silently and loudly for not noticing before. That was the kind of thing one spotted immediately when reuniting with a friend after a long time of separation. But they weren't friends anymore. And Geralt reckoned he hadn't been a good friend before.

He didn't return until after lunch, both him and Pegasus drenched in sweat despite the freezing temperatures. He gave the yearling's reins over to a stable hand, and went on to grab Jaskier's old wooden sword.

He was about to head out the gates again when he heard rapid steps on the stairs. "Oi!" Marin shouted. "Oi, Geralt, wait!"

The witcher grunted annoyed but waited nonetheless. "What?"

"I'm coming with you."

"What for?"

"To spar," the Captain of the Guard raised his own wooden sword, "or to blow some steam off. Both, if you like to." He smiled kindly. "You look like you could need it."

"Hmm." He wasn't really in the mood for company. But he didn't want to argue either. He didn't want to talk at all, if he was honest.

"Come on," Marin bumped shoulders with him. "I promise you I'll put up more of a fight than a tree."

"Fine," he caved. Side by side they headed out into the woods. Marin was chatting amicably and Geralt answered with the occasional grunt. It was... easy. Almost too easy. When the sparring started, the teasing started, too. That felt even easier. To respond to the barbed comments with jabs of his own. He could almost pretend- He knew he shouldn't, but he could.

It also felt good to train in earnest, not just thrash a lifeless tree. Marin didn't compare to sparring with Lambert or Eskel, of course, but it was better than nothing.

It was the late afternoon when they trudged back up the hill to the castle, and Marin finally managed to get a laugh out of Geralt. Later he couldn't remember what it had been about, but for a short moment he wasn't worried. He was almost happy, in fact.

"Ah," Marin sighed contentedly, "and here I thought you didn't feel emotion after all."

"Hmm."

"So, it's untrue? That rumour, I mean."

"It is." His skin crawled uncomfortably but luckily he was spared another question when a guard called down from the walls: "Oi, witcher! Where've you been? His lordship and his cousin got back an hour ago."

His heart sped up and he cocked his head. "And?"

"Both hale and hearty. His lordship's in his study, I believe; and Lady Fiona ran to Lady Józefa's drawing room. She’s very excited ‘bout something."

Geralt nodded and tried not to seem too thrilled, forcing himself to slow his step. "Thanks."

Marin's hand landed heavily on his shoulder. "Go on," he said and gently pried the wooden sword out of Geralt's grasp. "We'll talk another time."

He looked at him surprised for a moment. Only when the Captain of the Guard nodded once more in encouragement he pounced. He didn't even try to hide his hurry as he sprinted over to the North Wing and up the stairs.

"Where is she?" he asked as he burst into the drawing room only to find it empty except for Józefa.

"Good evening to you, too, Geralt," she said very calmly, not even looking up from where she was weaving an enormous tapestry. "Where is who, if I might ask?"

"C- Your cousin. Fiona."

She turned around to him. "You can call her Cirilla to my face. I know."

Geralt frowned. "Fuck," he cursed and turned on his heel. 'Tonight, it'll be bard's head on a platter.'

"Ah, ah, ah. Before you go and gut my brother, he had nothing to do with it. She told me all by herself."

" _ Fuck _ ," he said again. ‘She should know better than be that stupid.’

"Don't worry, your secret's safe with me. Anyways," she sighed and turned back to her work, "your child surprise — Geralt, could you at least face my direction while I am talking to you? That would be very appreciated, thank you very much." He ground his teeth and turned back towards her. "Well, where was I? Ah yes, Cirilla. She was here. Wanted to come and look at the tapestry and tell me about her day. She was very enthusiastic. Apparently, she rendered the Baron of Dergetten speechless and dear Julek nearly fell off his horse because he was laughing too hard. Also, she's very cross at his lordship for sending her away for half an hour while staying back to discuss something in private. You missed her by... hm, ten minutes maybe, I'd wager. She was rather tired."

"Hmm." That was a lot of information. He was still eyeing the tapestry while trying to decide what to do now when Józefa spoke again: "Come and look if you like," she said with an inviting smile.

"I'd rather not, my lady," he grumbled. He should go and look after Ciri.

That made her laugh. "Don't be shy. And don't pretend you don't want to look."

His eyes flitted to the door. A few more minutes wouldn't hurt, he guessed. And Ciri had talked a lot about the tapestry since he got back. It would be nice to know what she was talking about for once. "Fine," Geralt relented and stepped closer.

He had seen his fair share of finished tapestries but never observed the process. For rugs, yes, but not this kind of art. He had imagined it to work much like the common rug and while the loom looked much the same, Geralt gaped. "There's a painting," he noted. "And a mirror."

"Why, of course," Józefa seemed genuinely confused. "How else would you make a tapestry?"

He shrugged and looked at the painting instead. All five Pankratz siblings were depicted, the four sisters standing around Jaskier in his high seat. As far as he could tell, it was very accurate, especially given that it couldn't be a portrait. 'She really knows her siblings' faces well.' He didn't pay too much attention to the three siblings he already knew, but stepped closer to observe the other two.

He didn't even know their names, he realised with shock, but he would've guessed that they were Jaskier's sisters regardless. Just like Janina, too, they could have been twins. Quadruplets. Whatever. The same soft brown hair, the same round face, the same piercing blue eyes. Of course, there were differences, too, subtle enough, but still there. Jaskier would point them out in a heartbeat, wrapped in pretty words. All Geralt noticed was that they were beautiful like their brother.

"Oh," Józefa said, "you have never seen the process!"

He frowned, the increasing accuracy with which the Pankratz siblings saw through him made his skin crawl. "Those are buttercups," he said instead and pointed at the painting. The five people were all holding bouquets in many different colours, Jaskier's the same as his namesake.

"Ah, yes." Józefa smiled fondly. "Mother gave him that silly name. Jaskier, I mean. I thought I should honour that. Beautiful and poisonous."

"And the other ones?" The Józefa in the portrait was holding primroses, and Janina daisies. The other two held red clover and lilies of the valley respectively.

"From our mother, too. Stokrotka and Koniczyna for Janina and Jolanta, the most common of flowers. Konwalia for Justyna, poisonous as well. And primroses for me, the one that was spoiled the most."

"Hm," Geralt made. "The sense of humour runs in the family."

"I'm afraid it doesn't." She made a disgusted face. "You see, dear Janka-" The doors burst open. "Ah, speak of the devil..."

"Don't we have endured enough in the past month, Józia?" Janina Pankratz flared. "Is a witcher in our home not enough punishment for whatever crimes we might have committed? This is getting ridiculous!"

Józefa sighed while Geralt did his best not to growl. "What did he do now?"

"He's locked himself into his rooms, like the spoiled brat he is. He’s  _ sulking _ , for whatever reason, but I tell you it’s his fault! I offered to go to the parlay, I know Daniel well enough, but did he listen? No! Wanted to do it all by himself like a big boy and what did it get him? He ruined it, somehow, I’m sure of it. Worse than this damned cousin he brought here; she's listening at least when an adult is speaking. I remember why I was glad to have him off at Oxenfurt or  _ Melitele knows where _ . Oh, what I would give for the possibility of him ending up dead in a ditch at every moon's turn! I tell you, Józia, I'd put him over my knee, if I could!"

Geralt couldn't keep quiet anymore: "You shall not," he growled. "You won't harm one hair on his head."

Janina whirled around, noticing him behind the painting for the first time. "You!" she pointed at him.

"Me," he confirmed.

"You stay out of this," she bristled. "Besides, it's beyond time that you learn your place in this house, you-"

"Janina," Józefa said quietly. To his surprise the eldest Pankratz sister shut up.

"Fine," she sneered. "I'll come back when our drawing room is clean again." With that she was gone, slamming the door loud enough to make Geralt's ears ring.

Once he had recovered, he asked: "Why does your sister hate witchers so much?"

"Janina?" Józefa sat down behind the loom again. "Has nobody told you? Our mother died twenty-four years ago. She was killed by a monster; I don't even remember what kind."

That was a common enough story. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. Julian and Janina are the only two with real memories of her anyways. I was two years old when she died and I can't even remember her face. Though, well the witcher thing... Father hired one to get her back. Don't ask which school or anything, all tales about The Incident have been banned from Lettenhove years ago. Not even Julek dares break the silence. Not even now, after-" She sighed and took a moment, blinking at the ceiling. There were tears in her eyes, though she did not smell of onion grief.

"You don't have to," he offered nonetheless.

"No, I want to," she insisted. "You deserve to know. He couldn't bring her back, of course, she had already been dead. The witcher only returned with her corpse. Janina has hated your kind ever since." She sighed. "Julek on the other hand... why, you became his heroes." She smiled at him. "I'm glad that he became such good friends with you. And that he got to travel the Continent with you, it has always been his dream. I believe you have made him the happiest man alive."

Geralt swallowed hard. "I... did nothing to warrant your praise, my lady. I made him very sad, actually."

"Is that why I barely recognise him anymore?"

"Hmm. I fear so."

"Then fix it, witcher. We have all heard his songs and in those you are a hero. And Julian might be a lot of things — a debaucher, a nitwit, and a self-important swaggerer who impossibly inflates all of his tales. But he is no liar. Not when it's truly important."

He had the feeling he was missing something. "So?"

She clicked her tongue in disapproval. "So, live up to your reputation and save him. He is withering like this." 

Geralt ground his teeth. "I'm trying," he grunted. "I just don't know how."

"You're a smart man. I'm sure you'll figure something out." She picked up the thread again. "You could start by trying to coax him out of his rooms."

"Your sister said he's locked himself in."

She looked at him as if he was exceptionally stupid. "Well, then get creative! I'd be very surprised — and disappointed — if those doors don't open for you. And now off you go, I want to hear the gossip."

Geralt wasn't really sure what made his legs move. First out of the Drawing Room, then down the stairs and up again, until he stood before Jaskier's room. 'I wanted to look after Ciri,' he reminded himself, but this was oddly more important. He also suspected that he'd never find the courage again if he bolted now.

And so, Geralt of Rivia meekly knocked on the Viscount de Lettenhove's rooms. "My lord?" he asked.

No answer. He shouldn’t be surprised. He almost turned around again to go check on Ciri first, but then Jaskier's faint voice beckoned him inside an empty bedroom.

"Uh-" Geralt said, confused.

"Over here," he answered and Geralt quickly strode over to another door he hadn't noticed during his previous visit. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw the bathtub Jaskier was soaking in.

"My lord?" he asked hesitantly.

"Come in," the Viscount commanded.

"Maybe I shouldn't-"

"Just close the door, Geralt," he sighed tiredly and raised a golden goblet to his lips. The smell of alcohol permeating from it was entirely too strong for it to just be wine.

"Alright," he answered quietly and did as he was told. Jaskier drank again and he could feel worry creeping up his spine. "Are you drunk?"

"Not enough," the Viscount answered and took another deep gulp.

Unsure what else to do, Geralt sat down on the side of the tub and asked: "Your parlay didn't go well, then? Your, uh- your sister said that Ciri said it did."

"Which one?"

"Take a guess."

"Janka still won't talk to you, huh? I'll see to that." He swirled the liquor around in his cup. Before Geralt couldn't take the silence anymore, Jaskier thankfully continued: "It was... alright, all things considered. Hoped it would be better. Feared it could go worse." He looked straight at Geralt. "There's no going back now, witcher. The stage is set. Now we just have to play our parts."

"I don't quite understand."

Jaskier sighed and dropped back against the tub. It did nothing to quell Geralt’s worry, but at least it served to empty out most of the goblet. "All you need to know is that it went well enough. Though I suspect-" He halted.

"What do you suspect?"

"No, let's not talk of that. We'll cross that bridge when we get to it."

"You know that I'm here if you want to talk."

He snorted a laugh. "Those words don't suit you, witcher. Whenever I hear them from your mouth, I can't shake the feeling that you're mocking me."

'I'm not,' he wanted to say. But his words failed him as so often.

Jaskier sighed and pushed himself upright again. "Now, what did you come for?" He glanced into his cup and frowned when he found it empty. Carelessly he tossed it away.

Geralt averted his gaze. "I'm not sure if now's the time..."

"My witcher," he said coldly.

"My lord?"

"Talk," the Viscount ordered without turning to face him.

And so, he did: "You did not ask me for details about my hunt."

"I did not," he confirmed.

"You're-" He wet his lip with his tongue. He knew that no matter how he posed that next question, there would be trouble. "You're not writing a song."

Jaskier's jaw clenched immediately. "I am not. I was under the impression you didn't like them."

"And I was under the impression you wrote them regardless," he shot back without thinking.

The Viscount’s expression grew cold. "So what? Is your ego so inflated you think you're owed songs now?"

"I do not, my lord. I was also under the impression you wrote them because it is your passion," he said calmly. "I did not mean to offend you."

There was no answer at that.

"You're not singing, either," Geralt continued cautiously. "Your hands are soft and your lute is nowhere to be found. You tell Ciri stories but never sing for her."

"Get to the point, witcher," Jaskier ground out.

Geralt steeled himself and asked with as much courage as he could muster: "Why is there no music in Lettenhove Hall, my lord?"

Jaskier whipped around to him, water sloshing over the rim of the tub and drenching Geralt's breeches. He wanted to stand his ground but there were tears in Jaskier's eyes, the scent of anger and sadness wafting off him. He stood and swayed, coughing at the foul odour. "Because I  _ despise _ it, witcher. I hate every tune I ever wrote, every line I ever composed. I cannot stand it anymore. Just thinking of it makes me sick!"

Geralt retreated farther as a thick cloud of onion grief hit him. "Is it my fault?" he asked agonised and immediately cursed himself for it.

The tears flowed freely now, Jaskier choking on his sobs instead of answering. 'Foolish witcher,' he chided himself, 'of course it's your fault.'

He regained his balance and avoided Jaskier's gaze. "I'm sorry," he said earnestly. "I am so sorry. If I could-"

"No." Jaskier sniffled. "Not for that."

'For what then?' he wanted to ask but didn't. 'Coward.' Three times he reached out only for his hand to fall back to his side again. "Is there anything I can do?"

"I think you've done quite enough." Geralt didn't even dare to breathe. Spicy pepper flared up. "Go away, witcher." When he hesitated for just one moment, Jaskier shouted: "Now!"

Geralt was too craven to do anything but obey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soo... was this what you had in mind?  
> As you might have noticed, the bath scene was inspired by @[spielzeugkaiser](https://spielzeugkaiser.tumblr.com/)'s [art](https://spielzeugkaiser.tumblr.com/post/628707973678743552/my-mind-kept-nudging-me-in-the-direction-to) here, who kindly gave me their permission to use it. You also might have noticed that it ended very differently. Going forward there will be more scenes like this, that you might recognise but as we're telling two different stories, they won't overlap completely.  
> Anyways, _now_ you can come yell at me


	13. Intriguing Intruders and Intruding Intrigues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier's liege lord comes to Lettenhove and our beloved ex-bard is struggling to keep it together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, yes. Welcome to chapter 2. No, you didn't read that wrong. This begins with the second scene I've ever written for this AU. We've come a long way since back then, especially considering that it was only a little under two months ago and this fic has since taken over my life.  
> Now enough of me rambling, here's the chapter:

"Where is he?" Jaskier panted, wincing at how his side ached after sprinting up a flight of stairs. He used to be able to hold his own against a witcher on a horse, for Melitele's sake, what had happened to all that stamina?

"Beggin' your pardon, m'lord, I don't know," Marta answered, her eyes widened in panic. "I've been lookin' for 'im for the past hour. He's nowhere to be found."

"Shit," he cursed, startling the surrounding servants. "Fuck!" he cursed again, just because the first one hadn't been enough to actually voice his frustration. He kicked the wall and howled in pain. "Fucking _shit_! Start over," he ordered. "I want that damned witcher and I want him now! Marta!"

"Yes, m'lord?"

"Is my cousin presentable yet?"

"No, m'lord."

"Then see to it that she is. You have half an hour; the green dress, if you will."

He turned on the heel and raced down the stairs again, cursing quietly. He shouldn't be surprised, really, that Geralt chose today of all days to all but disappear from Lettenhove. 'That's not fair,' he reminded himself, 'you didn't know eith-'

"Fuck!" His foot slipped on the slippery stairs and he would've taken a tumble down the stairs hadn't he collided with a bulk of muscle.

"Careful, my lord," Geralt said, and held him firmly by the shoulders. "Else a twisted ankle will be the least of your worries."

"Geralt!" Jaskier started a futile attempt to wiggle out of his grasp. "Where have you been, you donkey?"

"Training your horse, my lord," he replied, making no move to let go of him. Instead he calmly looked around, taking in the bustling servants. "What's going on?" He pulled him closer to the wall, to let two men hauling a heavyweight chest pass through. "Are you preparing for war?"

'If only.' He scoffed and smacked at Geralt’s hands. "No. Witcher, you need to leave."

"What?" That finally made him soften his grasp, though he did not lift his hands, nor did he move from where they were crammed onto the same step. "Why?"

Jaskier passed a trembling hand through his hair. It was sweaty already, not a good way to start the day when- "There are guests on their way," he explained as calmly as he could. "I don't know _which_ of my imbecile neighbours chose this exact time for a visit, but there's nothing I can do about it now."

"And why do I-" His hand shot out and caught a young lad by the elbow. "Are those my swords?" he growled menacingly. The poor boy looked as if he might piss himself.

"Yes, I- Geralt!" He tried prying the butcher's hand away without too much success. "Let go of him this instant, you're frightening him!" The witcher complied slowly. "Stop glowering, they are acting on my orders. And you, run along now, and hurry up for Melitele's sake!"

The lad took off again and Geralt crossed his arms and glared. "Why?" he asked again. "Where's he going with them?"

"To your new rooms in the North Wing. Ci- Cousin Fiona is also moving, she'll be living with my sisters." He waved his hand dismissively, cutting him off before he could even start to speak. "It wouldn't make sense otherwise. I wouldn't leave her with you when Józia and Janka are there to take care of her. And as my best friend it's only natural for you to be accommodated close to my quarters."

The witcher frowned, still not convinced. "Why do I have to leave then?"

"Because I do not know who is paying me a visit and what intentions they bear. No-one will look twice at dear Cousin Fiona, but you-"

"My lord, there you are," Jakub came to a halt a few steps below them.

"What?" Jaskier snapped.

"Your visitors. They're bearing the banner of Hangfelt."

Fear gripped him like an icy hand, choking the air from his lungs. " _Fuck._ " He'd known this was inevitable, but still- "Go, Jakub, inform the kitchens right away. I will not be accused of lacking hospitality." He manservant bowed curtly and hurried away.Jaskier turned to follow him.

Geralt caught him by the shoulder again. "What's so important about Hangfelt?"

Jaskier winced. "That's my liege. You need to leave, _now_."

He frowned. "I don't understand-"

Jaskier was beginning to lose his patience. 'Gods above and below, he's been roaming this continent for almost a century. Should be more than enough time to get a basic grasp on petty politics,' he thought. He almost told him so, too. Almost. "That's not important right now," he hissed and tried to push him away, "we're running out of time."

The witcher didn't seem overly impressed by this display of his measly human strength. " _Please_ , my lord, let me try-"

"You don't need to understand!" he snapped, and Geralt visibly recoiled. If nothing else, it did soothe Jaskier's temper a bit. Wiping his sweaty hands on his breeches, he tried to explain: "My liege, Geralt. Lettenhove is _his_ castle. If he suspects something, _anything_ -" He took a shuddering breath, steadying himself. With a firmer voice than he would have thought possible, he continued: "If he demands that I hand you over, I won't be able to refuse. I won't be able to protect you from him, do you understand?"

Geralt paled visibly. "Fiona-"

"She'll be _fine_ , she's family. Protected by my name and castle peace and all that. No-one can lay a finger on her without my leave. The Count is not a bad man, he won’t hurt us and break the law: we’re protected by King Vizimir’s peace. But you are not. So, witcher," he straightened himself, "you need to _go_."

He set his jaw and the grip on his shoulder tightened. "My lord."

"Take your swords and a cloak, and for Melitele's love, stay out of sight. Of his guards, and his men, and most importantly himself. I'll come find you in the woods once all of this is over. Alone. Do not come seek me if there is another person with me." He faltered, taking in Geralt's squared shoulders, his kind eyes, his attentive expression. "I-" Suddenly, the urge to exchange the grip on his shoulder for a tight embrace to calm his fluttering heart became very hard to fight.

"My lord?" Geralt's voice startled him from his trance. "Are you alright?"

"Yes," he answered curtly and bit down hard on his tongue, to shake those ridiculous thoughts. "I have places to be, witcher, and so do you. Unhand me and _leave_."

Very slowly and very reluctantly Geralt did as he was told and freed Jaskier from his grasp. He allowed himself to wonder, only for a moment, if Geralt might have felt overcome by the same sort of sentimentality. 

'No,' he told himself decidedly as he sprinted down the stairs of his tower, 'do not think about that. You're Jaskier the Bard, not Jaskier the Fool, Julian Alfred Pankratz of Lettenhove. If Geralt had no affection to spare before, he surely won't have any now.' 

In the courtyard, what appeared to be the entirety of his staff was bustling around, all doing their best to make the castle presentable for its rightful owner. 

There weren't a lot of orders for Jaskier to give, they all knew what they were doing. The air was filled with the rich smells of half a hundred different delicacies to flatter Lord Hangfelt's noble palate, and servants hauled casks of wine and ale alike that would surely not even see the first snow. Wiktor was making space in the stables for at least a dozen horses more, as Jakub was berating some chambermaid for one reason or another. It was a good thing Jaskier had already warned them that his visit was rather imminent after his return from the disastrous parlay. That way they weren't completely unprepared.

Still, he winced at the memory. The meeting hadn't been _dangerous_ or anything, gods forbid, he'd never have brought Ciri if there had been so much as the slightest sliver of the chance. It had even been fun, truth be told, until the Baron had begged a word in private with him. Unpleasant didn't even _begin_ to describe the whole affair.

"Why?" Jaskier had asked cheerfully, "Are you afraid to get your ass handed to you by a little child again?"

Daniel of Dergetten had frowned at that but not dignified it with a response. Not until he had sent Ciri ahead, at least. Then his old childhood friend had leaned close and hissed: "What on earth are you playing at, Julian?"

"Me?" he had laughed. "Nothing, dear friend. I've got no idea what you're talking about."

"What happened to your sharp wits? Fucked them away on the Path? I thought the man who graduated summa cum laude from Oxenfurt would know better than to believe himself the only one capable of thinking around here."

"Speak plainly."

"Sheltering a witcher in Lettenhove, _Jaskier_?" he had mocked. "Beneath a mantle of protection that is not even yours to give? Aleksander hasn't forgiven you for your last insolence, yet. What was the year again? 1252? This impertinence might just be enough of an insult for him to finally set you aside. Unless-"

"That's quite enough, Dergetten," he had bristled.

The bastard had only smiled. "Is it, Pankratz? I know where my loyalties lie, as does the Count. Do you?" The memory of his smile choked the air from his lungs. 'Foolish,' he told himself, 'you're a foolish man, Julian Alfred Pankratz, to think you can hide a secret such as this from your liege.' Which meant, there was only one thing he could do.

It was true that Count Aleksander Milas had been lenient in the past when it came to Jaskier's particularities that distinguished him from the rest of his peers. He quite liked his songs, had even encouraged him to tutor his son - which Jaskier had firmly declined - and he hadn't given him too much of a hard time for his prolonged absence from Lettenhove. Upon his return his liege had only laughed, not cruelly, when he had knelt at feet to beg his forgiveness for his negligence. And when his father had died, not two days later a servant had summoned him to Hangfelt to swear his fealty — despite Jaskier's protests that his sister Janina would be much better suited for the title.

"Nonsense," Lord Hangfelt had answered, "how could I accept her oath when the rightful heir is right here?"

So, he had sworn, and Hangfelt had promised a visit once the mourning period was over. He was only off by three days, probably spurred on by Daniel of Dergetten's dutiful report, the little traitor. As a consequence, though, Jaskier was still dressed all in black, as were his sisters. Ciri's green dress was an almost offending speck of colour when she stepped out into the courtyard.

"There you are," Jaskier exclaimed and strode over to her to put an arm around her shoulders. "Come, you'll stand at my left side."

She nodded and together they crossed over where Janina and Józefa were already waiting. The four of them surely made a pretty image, he thought, all of them with their pale skin, dark hair and bright eyes. 'Ciri fits right in,' he noticed, satisfied with the illusion he'd conjured. 

Waiting like this, prettily lined up for their lord to inspect like cattle on a market's day, was torture of the cruelest kind. The urge to fidget hadn't been this strong in him since before he'd left. Images of memories long forgotten flooded his mind, the five Pankratz siblings diligently queueing before their father's high chair to receive his judgement after a day of deeds and misdeeds. It had always been him who had misbehaved most, if wandering off in his mind and quietly humming as he worked could be counted as misbehaviour. It had also always been him to step forward to take the blame and consequences for whatever crime his sisters had committed. It hadn't been his fault more often than not. 'My responsibility to bear nonetheless.' 

When he finally found the strength to abandon those hurtful memories he bowed down to Ciri. "You'll have to curtsy," he informed the princess quietly.

"I know," she replied, barely moving her lips. Absentmindedly he wondered how many stiff ceremonies she had already suffered through. 'Surely too many,' he determined. 'Even one is one too much.' "I've seen it many times."

He raised an eyebrow at that. "You do know _how_ , don't you?"

She grew rigid under his touch. "Of course!" she repeated. "I've seen it many times!"

He sighed and rolled his eyes. It was Jakub who saved him from the embarrassment of having to explain to a princess how to bend her stiff royal knees. "They're here, my lord," his servant told him quietly.

"Good," he answered. It wasn't good at all. Still, he shouted: "Open the gates!" He heard Jakub repeat his order, and then Marin, too, and then the large winches sprung into motion and opened the heavy oaken gates for the Count and his companions.

As soon as the winches stopped moving, a party of roughly fifteen riders poured into the courtyard. A standard bearer came first, then the Count himself, along with his son and heir, the spitting image of his father. Well, if one ignored the fact that his father was in his forties, overweight, and balding, and not a strapping lad of fourteen years- 'Oh, fuck no, you won't,' he thought and his grip on Ciri's shoulder tightened.

Behind them followed some brothers or cousins or friends Jaskier couldn't quite remember from his youth, half a dozen guards, and- He nearly cursed out loud when he saw there was a woman riding with them. 'Hangfelt, you bastard.'

To his deepest regret he had to postpone his harangue, though, because Aleksander Milas, the Count of Hangfelt was already dismounting and it was time for their act to begin.

Jaskier stepped forward to greet him with a smile as if he was an old friend and not his garroter. "My liege," he said and bowed with a flourish, "Lettenhove is yours."

"Pankratz!" Hangfelt laughed and displayed his crow's feet for everyone to see. "How good to see you again!" He pulled him into a tight hug that made it difficult to breathe. "How have you been?"

"Fine, my lord," he gritted out and did his best to make a sad face, "as much as the circumstances allow it. Though we are still very heartbroken for the passing of our father."

"And I expect no less, my loyal servant. Which is why I postponed this visit as long as I could. I would not want to disturb your grief."

"You could never, my lord," he answered but the Count had already moved on to his sisters, who were still curtsying deeply. Jaskier nudged Ciri with his elbow to get her to do the same.

"My dear Lady Goldfurt," he said as he beckoned Janina to rise. "I see you still enjoy your brother's hospitality. Is your husband's town so unappealing?"

"Not at all, my lord," her voice and smile were icy, "I am only here to help my brother settle in. He has been away for so long; he hardly knew his way around the castle upon his return."

That made Lord Hangfelt laugh. "Is that true? Have you forgotten all about your home while away on your little adventures?"

"Hardly, my lord," Jaskier forced himself to say. "But it is good to have familiar faces surrounding me."

He nodded. "And what pretty faces those are. Lady Józefa!" He kissed her on both cheeks and Jaskier found himself admiring her self-control. She didn't even flinch from his slobbery mouth. "Has your brother still not found you a husband, Madam?"

"Alas, he has not," she answered jovially, truly an accomplished actress. "Though I trust he will soon correct that mistake. Come spring, perhaps?"

"Sooner still, I hope. I would love a spring wedding. Speaking of weddings, you do remember my sister, Pankratz? The Lady Alina Milas."

The lady in question dismounted her own horse and came over to them. She was Aleksander Milas' step-sister, almost two decades younger than her brother, and the heiress to a rich estate. And his betrothed, whom he had stood up one beautiful autumn evening in 1252 on their wedding day. 'Shit,' he thought and bowed to kiss her hand. This day was growing worse by the minute. He didn't let that show, though. "How could I not? Is it me, Lady Alina, or have you grown thrice as beautiful since our last meeting?"

"Surely I have," she answered coldly. "I was six years old when you last saw me. Though not for lack of opportunities, I remind you."

He felt the heat rise in his cheeks. Hangfelt just laughed again. "Look at you, Pankratz! She hasn't forgiven you, yet. Well, maybe it is not too late. You are still unmarried, I've heard."

"I am. Though let us not talk of such a joyous occasion yet. You see, my sisters'-" He halted for just a moment, shooting them an apologetic glance. "- delicate nature is still rather frail after our father's death. I wouldn't want to disturb their mourning with festivities."

Lord Hangfelt pouted, which looked ridiculous on a man of his age and size. "You speak of mourning, yet still you have invited guests to your house. I think we haven't been introduced yet?"

"My cousin, the Honourable Fiona Nowak. I met her three years ago in Verden and, after I heard the war had left her orphaned, I had her brought to Lettenhove. It has lessened our grief greatly to have her with us."

Ciri rose from her curtsy and let the Count kiss her knuckles. She obviously had learned self-control from Józefa, for her face didn't so much as twitch. "I am terribly sorry for your loss, Madam."

"There is nothing to be sorry for," she answered and Jaskier could feel the whole courtyard hold its breath, "it was not your sword that slew my mother."

Hangfelt blinked for a moment, then burst out laughing. "I see the family resemblance now! A steel-tongued brat for our silver-tongued lordling. Have you given up your verses and songs yet?"

"Almost, your Lordship," he answered with a forced smile, "there is only one person in the world who might move me to a ballad these days."

"A lover?" he teased.

'If only.' "An old friend."

He frowned. "Not the witcher, I hope."

Jaskier forced himself to smile. "Precisely him."

"Speaking of steel and silver and ballads, then, where is he? Has he left so soon again?"

"Not at all, my lord. Though, he left before sunrise this morning. He does not like to spend the days in company, especially not while he is mourning."

"Mourning?" one of the members of Aleksander Milas' party called. "Are you quite sure he can even feel?" Roman, he remembered the brat was called, the Count's youngest brother and just out of his swaddling clothes when Jaskier had left.

'I am, you prick, and I am quite sure with such a comment you'd have angered him enough for him to gut you for me. He can feel just fine.' He pitied that he couldn't say that to his liege's brother. Instead, he opted for: "I believe he thinks himself guilty for the death of Princess Cirilla."

"Ah," the Count said and dropped his voice compassionately. "I've heard the tales. They say she was raped by half a hundred men before the bastards killed her."

His eyes grew wide and his grip on Ciri's shoulder tightened. "My lord, not in front of the child, if you please," he said just as quietly. "She's gone through so much already."

"Of course." He straightened himself. "Speaking of children, have you met my son, yet, Pankratz? Aleksander, Lord Retton."

"I'm afraid I have not." Jaskier bowed again, when the lad stepped forward, looking very out of place with his gangly limbs, too large ears and peach fuzz on his upper lip. 'Gods, and I went to Oxenfurt at that age!' he recalled. Twenty years later, the thought of sending a child to that place filled him with terror. He was glad that the boy could not see the grimace on his face. "At your service, my lord."

"Rise, Lord Lettenhove," he said with a thin voice. 'Gods, he's nervous,' Jaskier thought with amusement. "You, uh, have a beautiful castle."

'What pretty lines he has learned.' He had a hard time not smirking when he answered: "I am pleased to hear that. Are you looking for a new keep for yourself, my lord?"

The lad frowned deeply, obviously not understanding the jape. "Not at all."

"No? Are you then making plans for the future, my lord?"

Helplessly and quite confused Aleksander the Younger looked up at his father, who in turn had a hard time to keep from laughing. "Enough of the teasing, Pankratz," he chided softly. To his son he said: "I told you to guard your tongue with that one. Twisting the words in your mouth is his easiest exercise."

"I would never, your Lordship," Jaskier said quickly, smiling openly now.

"Now, don't add lies to the never-ending list of your sins. We're hungry and we're cold, so keep your mouth shut and lead us to your hall and serve us your best wine. We've deserved it."

Jaskier bowed again. "It would be my pleasure." He turned to his former betrothed. "Lady Alina, might you grant me the honour of accompanying you?"

She scowled and for a moment he feared she might decline, but then she took his offered arm. After a glowering stare of her elder brother she even dignified his formal phrases with equally stilted responses as the Count led the way to the hall as if he owned the place. 'Which he does,' Jaskier reminded himself.

Out of the corner of his eyes he saw Aleksander the Younger stumbled over his words to ask Ciri to walk with him, who graciously accepted and giggled stupidly. Then, as she took his arm she made a barbed comment that the boy did not understand but that made Janina gasp in thinly-veiled horror. He couldn't quite rid himself of pride welling up at that, despite the curtain lecture that surely waited for him once the Count left.

In the hall Jaskier hurried to pull the lord's chair back for the Count and tried to ignore the jealousy seeing him at the head end of his table, his heir at his right-hand side. 'You never wanted the stupid title anyways,' he told himself, 'so there's no reason for jealousy now.'

He himself sat down at his liege's left, with Lady Alina at his side. Opposite to them was Ciri next to Aleksander who looked just as miserable as Jaskier felt. As soon as the other guests had resolved their brief argument about who got to sit next to Józefa and had all settled into their seats, the food was brought out.

It was a lot, much more than needed to feed such a small party and Jaskier felt a little bad for wasting it. But that was the way things were and he could do nothing about it. So he had his guests’ plates and cups filled and kept full, maybe a bit too much so. Roman Milas was drunk before the hour was up.

After lunch the Count got up. "I'll be going on a hunt," he declared, "and you will come with me."

Jaskier's head snapped around. "Excuse me?" he answered with a frail voice.

"I believe you understood me quite well. We're going hunting, Pankratz."

'What for?' he wanted to ask but didn't dare to. It was late in autumn already, there were no hunts this late. Besides, there were no hounds in Lettenhove and they hadn't brought any with them either. 'We're not hunting for game, then,' he thought grimly and fought the urge to divest himself of his lunch again. "Of course," he answered instead. "My pleasure."

He left Ciri and Alina with his sisters and led the Count and his friends outside again, praying to all the gods he knew. He prayed that Geralt had finally learned how to listen to a fucking order. He had no idea what his liege could want with the witcher — and he had no desire to find out either.

It took all his carefully composed self-restrain not to let the anxiety that roared within him rise to the surface. ‘He’ll be fine,’ he told himself, ‘he’ll be fine, he’ll be fine, he’ll be fine. He has to be.’ Instead he tried to busy himself with what he did best: telling stories. Joyously he japed and jested, and he would’ve jigged to, were his feet not planted firmly in his stirrups. 

Aleksander the Elder called for all the raunchy stories of his time in Oxenfurt and he gladly delivered. And when he and his friends doubled over in their saddles with laughter, Aleksander the Younger appeared at his side, shyly asking whether he could tell him about the Academy. The boy wasn’t stupid, Jaskier soon discovered to his surprise, on the contrary. ‘He’s just young,’ he realised, ‘and it can’t be easy to find your voice with a father as loud as his.’

Still, the worry in his chest did not subside and he kept looking to the sky, where the sun inched towards the horizon far too slowly for his liking. Apparently, the Gods had heard his prayer, for they returned some hours later with empty hands and empty stomachs. Dinner was hastily brought out for the hungry hunters and after that the nobles retreated to the fireplace room in the East Wing.

Hangfelt claimed Jaskier's armchair and Aleksander Geralt's, so Jaskier was left standing awkwardly for a moment before begrudgingly retreating to the divan where Alina sat. Like that he was forced to continue the polite conversation, that quickly turned into the dullest interaction of his entire life, until she mercifully begged her brother's leave to retreat for the night.

“You may go,” the Count conceded. “Aleksander, go with her.”

“ _Father_ ,” he whined pathetically, “you promised I could stay.”

“I promised you could stay the evening,” he growled. “The evening’s over, which means that women and children are going to bed.”

Jaskier hid his smirk and jerked his head in the direction of his sisters and Ciri. The princess was on her feet already and floated over to their guests. “Lord Retton,” she curtsied quickly, “Lady Alina, might you grant me the honour to show you to your rooms?”

Aleksander the Younger frowned and Jaskier smiled proudly. There was no way the young lord could politely refuse such an offer and he damn well knew it. So, he and Lady Alina went with Ciri and his sisters, and left Jaskier alone with Hangfelt and his men.

That finally gave Jaskier the opportunity to talk to the Count himself. "Lord Hangfelt," he said quietly, "might I talk to you in private?"

He scowled but nodded graciously, and allowed Jaskier to lead him to his study. "A drink, my lord?"

"Gladly," he answered as he sat down in Jaskier's chair by the window.

Jaskier poured two goblets of his best liquor — he'd need the courage — and brought them over to his lord. "Your witcher hasn't returned," he remarked as he accepted the drink; their cups clinked together, "and yet it is already dark. He's not very well trained."

"He's not an animal," Jaskier exclaimed indignantly before he could stop himself, "nor is he a prisoner. He may come and go as he likes."

"Not a very grateful guest, then, if he doesn't even come to greet his host's lord."

He clenched his jaw, desperately trying to think of a witty response. He wasn't fast enough though, for Hangfelt continued: "Hm. So, that cousin of yours... She does look an awful lot like you."

Jaskier tensed. 'Shit, I should have shut that rumour down as soon as it left Janina's lying lips.' "I suppose she does," he answered diplomatically.

That made the Count smile brightly. "Well?"

He hesitated. "Well... what, my lord?"

"Are you going to legitimise her?"

"Oh." Truth be told he hadn't even thought of that. He cursed silently. Well, maybe- "I haven't decided yet."

"Well, decide quickly, then. I like you, Pankratz. And as luck would have it, the betrothed of my dear Aleksander passed away from a fever a few months ago. I haven't decided on another match, yet."

For a few short moments Jaskier was stunned into silence, convinced that his ears had to be betraying him. 'Why would the Count want to bind me to his family tree?' Before he had even the chance to gather a clear thought his mouth blurted out: "What would you get out of it?"

Lord Hangfelt laughed. "Ever the clever man. Why, I would get Lettenhove back for a start.”

“Well, my lord, if you want it back, why not just take it?” He forced himself to smile. “You know just as well as I do that doing so is completely within your rights.”

“What, and just throw you out?” He shook his head. “No, Pankratz, I don’t think I’m keen on aggravating you anytime soon. Or your sisters, that is. I can’t afford a feud with neither Goldfurt nor Kerton. Not to speak of his Majesty’s uncle, who is so very fond of your Jolanta. And, judging by your reputation, you’d just flee to Oxenfurt and write a horrible cycle of smear poems that would ruin my reputation beyond measure, but not before seducing at least three of my siblings _and_ my mother.” There was an amused twinkle in his eye. “Is that an accurate assessment?”

Jaskier quickly hid his smile. “I believe so, my lord.”

“I know four things about you. First, you were endowed by the gods with a vivid imagination and a silver tongue. I know about the games you play and it’s folly not to fear you. You could be more lethal than your witcher still. Secondly, you’re too clever for your own good. You graduated two terms early, summa cum laude, with begrudging recommendation letters from all your professors. While simultaneously managing to climb the steps of the Academy to the rooms above the vice-chancellor’s office. Don’t give me that look, Pankratz, I did my research. Thirdly, you know how to survive. You did that for sixteen years while trailing behind a witcher like a lost puppy and fucking your way through nigh every marital bed of the Continent. That’s rather impressive. And lastly, you are filthy rich. In fact, you’re the richest vassal I got and I know that you know how to become richer still. Is that about right?”

He nodded slowly. “Colour me impressed, my lord,” he answered, “I believe you’re seeing right through me.”

“Good.” A smile spread on his face. “So, Pankratz, I have to retract my earlier words. I do not want Lettenhove back. I want you. For good. And I want you to put that clever little brain of yours to good use. I think we can go far, you and I.” He leaned back and crossed his arms. “So, why don’t you tell me why you actually wanted to speak to me and we work out a trade?”

“A trade, huh?” he repeated quietly. That was a much better bartering position than he’d imagined himself to be in. “It is true that there is something I wanted to ask of you, though does it not require Fiona to wed your Aleksander.”

“Why ever not, Pankratz? I took you for an opportunist! Wouldn't you like your grandson to be a Count?"

Jaskier's head was spinning as the whole extent of the offer became apparent. He should, he guessed. As a Viscount, that was. He should be delighted with the opportunity to get Goldfurt within reach. If Ciri truly were his daughter, he probably would have agreed without thinking twice about it. 

But she wasn't. She was Ciri, sweet little Ciri, who had suffered so much already, who slept with stuffed animals and clung to his lips with whatever story he told; brave little Ciri, who'd be just as deadly with a blade as her father once she was grown. He couldn't barter her away. Never. Not even to- "She's only ten years old," he said quietly. "I don't want to take that kind of decision quite yet."

Lord Hangfelt snorted. "Don't be ridiculous. She’s more than old enough for a betrothal. Alina was scarcely ten months old when our fathers brokered the engagement."

'And what grief that betrothal brought,' he thought bitterly. ‘My bride was not even old enough to agree to an engagement when I could already be married.’ Another reason why he had chosen to hide in Oxenfurt for four years, though not before his father had forced his hand to sign the damned thing. "Allow me a bit more time to think about it. Please, my lord. I only just got her. Seven years I didn't even know of her existence. Don't take her from me just now. I can offer you something else in its stead."

"Tell me about your demand and we can see about that payment. How bad is it? Treason? Spying? Did you kill someone? Not a member of the court, I hope, I can't help you there."

"None of that, my lord, you'll be glad to hear. It's…” He wet his lips nervously. "Five generations ago my ancestors were granted this keep for their loyal services to your family. They have kept their peace, collected their taxes, furthered their interest. I have done nothing less. These ancient walls have protected those who bore my name ever since. Refugees were among them, and traitors, too, yet with your blessing no foe dared disturb the peace of this keep."

"Yes, as it is tradition."

Jaskier closed his eyes and swallowed his pride. 'Geralt could do it,' he told himself. 'And if the stoic witcher can, so can I.' Slowly, he went to his knees. "My liege, I am asking your leave to extend the Castle Peace that protects me and mine to Geralt of Rivia, as well."

"So, that's why he's not here." The Count of Hangfelt was silent for a long time. When he finally spoke, his voice was scarcely more than a whisper. "I thought as much, but gods above and below, Pankratz, you are beside yourself with fear. He's a witcher, he will be alright! What are you so afraid of?"

'Why don't you tell me?' he thought angrily. 'You're the one who's been searching for him for the better part of the afternoon.' But right now was the time for humility and humiliation, not anger. "Might I be allowed to finish my plea, my lord?" he asked, his eyes firmly lowered onto the carpet.

He snorted and waved his hand dismissively. "Well, then, wordsmith, talk away."

"The Witcher Geralt of Rivia is my dearest friend, whom I have known for almost half of my life. I love him like I would a brother. He arrived on my doorstep tattered and torn from the war that divides our beloved Continent, with bloodhounds on his heels. They turned around as soon as Lettenhove came in sight, but I do not know if they will stop without knocking a second time. It is not only Nilfgaard who calls for his head, but other factions, too, closer to my borders than I would like. I would like to protect him from these threats and any that might follow."

"You're asking for a lot, Pankratz, you know that," Aleksander Milas said quietly.

"I do, my liege."

"And how do you intend to pay for that?”

He swallowed. "I-" His tongue flicked out to wet his lips, but it did not help the dryness of his mouth. 'It's for Geralt,' he reminded himself, 'for Geralt and Ciri.' With a firmer voice than he would have thought possible, he said: "I accept, my lord. I will become a part of your family and help you with your ambitions. If your sister would still take me after the insults I have bestowed upon her."

"Hm," the Count said. “That’s a lot you offer for a bit of protection for your witcher.”

“It is,” he agreed quietly. “You said it yourself, four sixteen years I trailed after him like a lost puppy. He is very dear to me.” After a small pause he added: “Though I certainly wouldn’t be disinclined to another holding or two in exchange for my service.”

"Fine," the Count conceded after a moment of consideration. "Wed Alina if you're so fond of her, then. I'll draw up the contract."

Jaskier clenched his teeth. 'Shit.' That meant that there would be at least half a dozen clauses in it that he wouldn't like. Maybe if he talked to Geralt- No. He wouldn’t do that to them. He bowed his head instead. "I would be honoured," he answered.

The Count held out his hand and Jaskier took it with numb fingers to kiss the signet ring. "Belleteyn is a wonderful date for a wedding."

"I am inclined to agree, my liege."

"Get up now, liegeman, and go fetch your witcher. He'll have nothing to worry about from me tonight. And tomorrow he can swear to you and he will be safe."

"I am grateful for your generosity," he answered honestly.

"I'm certain you are. Now, stop frowning, this is a joyous day."

It was an order, but Jaskier couldn't find it in himself to follow it. 'A joyous occasion?' he asked himself. 'I sold my hand in marriage to shield Ciri from the same fate, and for what? To protect the man, I have loved for half my life with whom I can't lead a conversation that lasts longer than five minutes. Pray tell me, my lord, what is joyous about that?'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens...  
> Let me know what you think in the comments or on [tumblr](https://dhwty-writes.tumblr.com/).  
> Next week we continue with Chapter 13 - A Broken Shelter, where we will catch up with Geralt, who is faced with some unpleasant news.


	14. A Broken Shelter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waiting for Jaskier in the woods is horrible. The news the Viscount delivers after are, somehow, even worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of you are wondering how Geralt and Jaskier will get out of the marriage. All I have to say to that is... not yet! But! They talk! Have fun :)

There were a lot of things Geralt didn't _enjoy_ about the world he lived in. Injustice. Annoying songs. Barkeeps who spit in his food. Not enough drink, not enough sex, not enough time with his brothers. Destiny.

But the list of things he truly _despised_ was surprisingly short. It went as followed:

1) Lukewarm liquids. No fluid on this earth was meant to — or even could be — be enjoyed tepid. Ale was supposed to be cold, bath water hot, nothing in between.

2) Ciri crying. He hated the helplessness that came with that. The realisation that he, Geralt of Rivia, a _witcher_ , was utterly unfit to take care of a child. Much less a royal one. Much less a royal one who began seeing him as her father of all things.

3) Jaskier being silent. Jaskier's tirades were legendary, everyone who spent more than a few seconds in his company knew that. The bard was able to monologue about basically everything: a pebble in his boots, a torn seam, trampled flowers, lukewarm ale, and, most impressively, the rude behaviour his fellow humans spared for witchers. But when he was silent? That was when he knew he should be worrying.

4) Djinns. He'd only known one in his entire life but that one was responsible for his bard's almost-untimely demise and the fucking curse that had ruined his relationship to Yennefer, and thus to Jaskier. No, he wasn't taking criticism on that one.

5) Being incapacitated when something dangerous was afoot. He hated it. He was a witcher, created to stand between danger and humanity. And yet, more often than he would like, he couldn't.

Like now. There was obviously something dangerous afoot. Elsewise he wouldn't have been sent away. Was there something even more incapacitating than being sent away? The early-winter forest didn't answer when he asked it as much.

"My point exactly," he muttered, pulling his cloak tighter around his shoulders and continuing his trek through the woods. It was fucking freezing and he hated it. He didn't really know where he was going, just away from Lettenhove, and then back again. Always circling the castle, but never approaching. 

"Fuck, Jaskier," he cursed. He was still trying to make sense of the hasty ramblings the Viscount had uttered earlier. 'There's a reason witchers don't meddle in human affairs,' he thought gruffly, 'and it's precisely this.'

A witcher's life was a simple life. Pass the Trials. Complete the training. Set out on the Path. Kill the monsters, collect the coin. Return for winter. Repeat. Nothing more. Nothing less.

Humans were so damn complicated, noble ones doubly so. 'Beguiling, backstabbing bastards, the lot of them.' They never said what they meant, shitting on the very same hand they shook and then using it to rub the crap in your face.

' _Never trust a noble_ ,' Vesemir had taught him. He was beginning to wonder why he'd never followed that counsel. Because somehow somewhere along the Path he had managed to amass a gaggle of them; he’d befriended one talkative viscount-turned-bard-turned-viscount-again, bound his destiny to one notorious runaway court mage, and practically adopted the heir-apparent to the Cintran throne. ‘The fuck,’ he thought emphatically.

And none of them were exempt from this nobility shit. No, on the contrary, as much as they pretended to hate their noble life, all of them actually seemed to at least momentarily enjoy their power— revel in it even. Ciri least of them all, but Geralt was halfway convinced that she didn’t actually understand the extent of her position. Yennefer and Jaskier on the other hand? No, they fit right into the stinking heap of horseshit that courts tended to be. 

And the longer Geralt stayed at Lettenhove, the less he understood the web of lies his former friend wove around them. He didn’t understand a damn thing of the intricate illusion Jaskier conjured with skillful words. And of course, the Viscount couldn’t be bothered to explain it. He hated it.

And the _orders_. Gods, how he hated the orders. Witchers weren't made to follow orders, not from petty humans at least. From Vesemir that was another kind of story, but his former teacher could still probably wipe the floor with him, blindfolded and one hand tied behind his back. 

The fact that Jaskier could do the same in a verbal sparring match was quickly banished from his head. He was angry, and irritated, and... _confused_ , for fuck's sake— and it was all Jaskier's fault; he didn't need to comply with him on top of that!

Still, he had followed the order. Not because he actually recognised Jaskier as his superior, but because the Viscount had been scared. He didn't like seeing Jaskier scared. Vinegar was a hideous stench on anyone, but mingling with the not-bard's usually flowery scent? It made him want to retch.

So, he had gone. To appease his not-friend, he told himself. 'And because of the promise he gave me.' If witchers were capable of knowing fear — which they weren't, definitely not — it would have been what he'd felt when Jaskier had told him to leave.

Even remembering the words made him feel... weird. It made him feel weird. There even might have been a sense akin to worry, mixed with a terrible resignation that ‘this is where it ends.' That that was the moment Jaskier finally decided he had enough of him, that sheltering him as well as Ciri was too much of a burden, too much of a danger to himself and his sisters, and so the witcher had to go.

Witchers weren't afraid. But if he could be, he just might've been.

But Jaskier had promised, and so Geralt had to cling to that vow. No matter if it had sounded like farewell. He shook his head violently and thumped his fist against a tree to clear his mind. 'No, don't think of that. You'll go mad if you do.'

It was the early afternoon when he heard hooves, still a good distance away. But when he strained his ears, he could almost make out the conversation. There was a quiet background chatter and unmistakable laughter. 'Jaskier,' he thought, and stumbled against the tree, overwhelmed by the wave of relief. 'Finally.' His head was reeling with alleviation as he stumbled through the underbrush, desperate to get back to his bard, to finally know what was happening, to-

"Oi!" an unfamiliar voice called. "Wait for me, Roman. I'm going for a piss."

He staggered to a halt. ' _Do not come seek me if there is another person with me_ ,' he remembered Jaskier's words, the tremor of fear that distorted his words, and the deep wrinkles that furrowed his brow.

'Shit,' he cursed silently. He might not know what was happening, but if there was one thing he knew, it was Jaskier's fear. And Jaskier's silence. If Jaskier did not call for him, if Jaskier was not alone-

He tried to fight the worry churning in his guts. 'Jaskier has nothing to be afraid of,' he reminded himself. 'Not from his liege, he said as much.' It had been _Geralt_ he had been afraid for.

And he had given him an order. So, Geralt turned on his heel and hurried away from the riders.

After that first close call, it became only more and more difficult to keep the worry at bay. Especially as the sun began to set. Treacherous thoughts from earlier that day rose as the shadows grew longer. Geralt wasn't afraid of the night, of course. It was a stupid thing to be, as a witcher. He didn't mind spending the night in the woods. He didn't need to worry about never waking again for such a folly.

'But what if I wake and Jaskier still doesn't come?' his foolish mind supplied. 'What if he's too craven to tell me to my face that I mustn't return?'

Geralt was almost brave enough to spare himself the wait for the answer. He was almost brave enough to go right away, leave Lettenhove, Ciri, and Jaskier behind and forget them. Almost.

But as so often in the past months, Geralt had to discover that he was a coward. Again.

He couldn't find it in himself to leave, so he found a clearing to spend the night— far enough from Lettenhove and the road that no traveller would happen upon him but close enough that he would still hear Jaskier approaching.

He didn't light a fire, nor did he settle down to sleep. He couldn't. He wouldn't dare. When Jaskier came to find him, he needed to be alert. ‘If he comes.’

It was almost midnight when his patience was rewarded. There were hooves in the distance again. This time, Geralt didn't leap to his feet to rush towards them. He did his best to forget that embarrassing episode, truth be told. This time, he waited.

The rider brought the horse to a halt no more than three hundred yards from where he knelt. "Geralt?" Jaskier asked without raising his voice. He could still hear him loud and clear.

Absentmindedly, he wondered how often he had already repeated that process while he listened intently for another human. When he heard none, he got to his feet, making his way towards him.

"I'm here," he said once he got within earshot of a human.

"And thank Melitele for that," Jaskier responded, squinting to make out the silhouettes outside of the narrow circle his torch illuminated. Geralt almost laughed. He was facing the wrong way. Not-not-roach pranced nervously where the Viscount held her loosely by the reins. "Where- Oh, there you are." To his credit, he jumped only a little when Geralt lightly touched his shoulder. Even through the thick layers of cloak, doublet, and shirt he could feel the shiver that ran down the Viscount's spine when he turned to face him. "I'd already feared you'd abandoned me."

'As did I,' he confessed in the privacy of his mind. "Never, my lord."

"Good. That's good." He took a shuddering breath. 

Geralt didn't know why he hesitated to remove his hand from Jaskier’s shoulder, just like he had that morning. It was odd, and he knew that he should stop but he _couldn't_. Since when did he crave the casual touches Jaskier had piled on him. 'Since when do I miss them?' 

Before he had a chance to examine the strange fancy, he was forced to lift his touch as Jaskier thrust both torch and reins into his hands. "Hold that for me, will you?"

"How was your liege's visit?" he asked while Jaskier climbed into the saddle again.

"Hm," he answered uncharacteristically. "Let's say it was a mixed bag. Some good, some bad. Overall, the good parts outweigh the bad, I reckon."

"Hm," Geralt answered in turn and handed him his reins. He kept the torch, though, and looked up at Jaskier expectantly. He didn’t say a word. ‘Great.’ So, it was on him to carry the conversation. Again. "Was this the bridge?" he asked, for lack of a better question.

The Viscount stared down at him in obvious confusion. "What bridge?"

"After you got back from your parlay," he explained. 'And got drunk,' he didn't say, "you told me about a bridge. One we'd cross when we'd come to it. Was this the bridge, my lord?"

"Well, um... yes. Sort of," he replied slowly, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. Not-not-Roach flicked her ears in annoyance. "It was the beginning. The first step across unsafe waters. It won't get easier from here on."

"Hm," he answered. He hated those cryptic responses with a passion. "Care to elaborate?"

The Viscount tensed. "No," he answered coldly.

Well, then. Nothing he could do about that. They continued their way back to Lettenhove. With each step Geralt fumed more; it was humiliating to walk while Jaskier rode. And in silence at that. Memories came back to him, of him snapping at the bard to shut up while he was babbling and humming and composing. The gnawing feel of guilt was hard to ignore.

It didn't take long for him to break. "Don't you think I deserve your honesty, Lord Lettenhove?" he spat out. "You seemed awfully concerned about my well-being for punishing me with ignorance now."

"And you seemed awfully uninterested in my life for pestering me with questions now," Jaskier quipped wittily. There was no real bite behind the words, though.

"It was easier to let you do the talking," he offered up the tiny bit of truth. "Comes more natural to you."

"And what about this situation makes you think any of this will be easy?" he shot back.

Geralt lowered his gaze. 'Nothing,' he supposed. That wasn't what Jaskier wanted to hear, though. "What do you want of me, my lord?" he asked quietly. "I- I don't understand you anymore."

Jaskier sighed and passed a hand through his hair. "I'm sorry, Geralt," he admitted meekly after a while. "This isn't fair to you, I guess. There's just so much... It's just a lot, alright?"

"Alright," he answered in lack of a better answer.

"You are right, though," he kept on talking. "I owe you honesty." After a small pause he continued: "There will be others. Winters are seldom spent alone, as long as the roads are halfway safe to travel. And when they aren't anymore, you stay where you got stuck until it thaws again. Now that two months since my father's death have passed, I won't be able to refuse invitations anymore. So, there will be guests in Lettenhove soon. And not all of them will be looking forward to sharing a roof with a witcher."

"Hmm. I'm used to that."

"I know, it's just-" When he looked up, he could see Jaskier chewing on his lip. He hadn't done that for a long time. "I'll do my best to protect you. But I _told_ you, you are not under my care, like Ciri is. I fear there will be blood spilt on my soil before the winter is done."

He felt like he was suffocating, barely recognising the voice as his own: "So, are you going to throw me out?" That was what he had been waiting for, after all. The moment when Jaskier decided he wasn't worth the trouble, when he showed him the door, when- His mind was racing, calculating already if he could still make it to Kaer Morhen. 'Never,' he knew. By this time of the year the path was almost impassable, the Killer living up to its name.

"Goodness no," Jaskier's words shook him from his thoughts, "not if there's another way." The smile he shot him was almost playful. "I'd rather have you where I can see you, witcher. Not out there where anyone can just snatch you up and let you rot in some dungeon."

He was still busy processing the smile and nearly stumbled over his next words: "Is there another way, my lord?"

The grimace that passed over his face was so utterly _Jaskier_ that his earlier worries were almost forgotten. "I think so," he said and wrinkled his nose. "You won't like it though."

Geralt shrugged. He didn't like a lot of things about the present situation. The unbearable tension between him and Jaskier above all. "If it keeps me at Ciri's side...," he answered casually. 'And at yours,' he didn't say. He hoped his not-friend got the meaning all the same. "What is it, my lord?"

"I talked to the Count of Hangfelt. He gave me his leave to expand the Castle Peace to you. Isn't that great?" He smiled artificially.

Geralt frowned deeply. "What's a Castle Peace?"

"What's a-" Jaskier spluttered and nearly fell off his horse. "Geralt, are you kidding me?" he asked once he had regained his balance.

He shook his head. He didn't understand why that was such a big deal.

"No inhabitant of a castle might take up arms against another? All feuds end where the walls begin? The king's peace holds no power over another man's hall? Any of that ring a bell?"

"No," he huffed. 'Great. More confusing noble fads.'

"No? Is that Redanian law, then?"

Geralt had no fucking idea. Did he look like a thrice-damned lawyer, for fuck's sake? He wasn't the one who had studied at a university.

Luckily, Jaskier didn't seem to expect an answer: "The Castle Peace is what guarantees there is no bloodshed in Lettenhove. It's what protects you from my sister's wrath and makes sure I don't wake to poison in my breakfast. It dictates that as long as you are within my walls no-one, not even the king, can lay a finger on you. It means the lord can grant you _asylum_." He paused for a moment. "Well, in theory, that is."

"In theory?" he inquired. He didn't like the sound of that.

"In practice, I am not the lord of Lettenhove Hall."

Geralt frowned. He'd learned that earlier that day already and that was still something to chew on. Lettenhove was drenched with Jaskier's spirit to the core, so somehow, he had expected the castle to be in his family's hands for centuries. Apparently, that was not the case.

"Might be, though," he continued. "If all goes well."

"Hmm."

"Well, let's not dwell on that. There's... one more thing."

"Spit it out, bard," he growled. He hated it when Jaskier told stories in bits and pieces. It was his livelihood, for Melitele's sake, he should be better at storytelling than this.

"Viscount, but alright," he corrected him. "There’s an oath you need to swear.”

Geralt's eyes snapped up. "Oath? What oath? You said no oaths."

Jaskier at least had the decency to wince. "Ah, that's not quite correct. I said a promise would suffice, _for now_. It doesn't suffice anymore."

He was fuming. 'Oh, you dirty, backstabbing little liar. Just you wait, you prick, once all of this is over-'

"So, about that oath," Jaskier quickly continued. "It’s an old law, from the times when the humans first came to the Continent and hadn't settled down yet. A wartime oath, forgotten by us, but still remembered by the Elder Races. Fitting for this time of bloodshed, isn't it? You'd be, ah- protected like family. Much like Ciri is."

He scowled warily. 'What are you not telling me, bard?' He knew him long enough to tell when he was hiding half of the truth. "Where's the catch?" he tried to ask as casually as possible.

"Ah." The faint shadow of a blush crept up his cheeks and he looked away in embarrassment. "See, that's the thing. It's rather irreversible. One of its prerequisites dictates some kind of debt you can't repay. And until you did your due, it won't be lifted."

Geralt scoffed.

Jaskier began babbling: "I knew you wouldn't like it and I'm sorry. I can't think of anything else, though, and-" It was almost endearing, reminding him much of how it had been _before_ -

Then he couldn't take it anymore. "Fine," he interrupted him sharply.

" _Fine_?" Jaskier asked in plain disbelief.

"Yes, fine, _my lord_ ," Geralt growled. He didn't like it or anything but it wasn't like he had any other choice. There was nowhere else he could go, and if that was what was needed that he could stay the winter, he'd do it. With a fucking bow and a smile, if need be. "You think my debts to you are high enough for that?"

Jaskier's face was unreadable when he looked up. "They have to be," the Viscount decided. He pulled on not-not-Roach's reins as they stepped out of the forest and Lettenhove came into view. "I'll draw the documents up tomorrow. As soon as Lord Hangfelt leaves."

"He's still there?" Geralt asked, not bothering to mask his surprise.

"He is. South Wing. Don't go there if you can avoid it."

"I won't," he promised. He observed the wistful look on Jaskier's face, taking in the moonlit road. "Ride along, my lord," he said softly. "I'll find my way."

He seemed to hesitate, looking doubtfully at the witcher. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure," he answered and didn't even hide his smile. 'Almost adorable,' he thought, 'that he's worried for me.' Despite knowing fully well that he could see just fine in the dim light. Even Jaskier could, the moon was bright enough.

"Well, then," the Viscount replied, gripping the reins a bit more loosely, "Jakub will show you to your new rooms as soon as you arrive. Goodnight, my witcher."

He tilted his head to the side. "Goodnight, my lord," he replied. And then he was off, chasing down the road at a breakneck speed that never would make Geralt's heart not skip a beat. After a few moments of staring after him in the dark he continued his own way back to the castle.

There were more guards than usual when he finally arrived on the top of the hill. They barely looked at him before waving him through. Warily, Geralt took in the empty courtyard. It was peaceful. Tranquil, almost. He'd never have noticed the strangers' intrusion if not for the horses tied down in front of the stables. Well, and the guards posted before the South Wing, that eyed him warily. He nodded politely and slouched off to the East Wing.

He almost gave in to the urge to go check on Ciri, but before he even reached the North Tower, Jakub was at his side. "Geralt of Rivia," he said quietly and Geralt raised a curious eyebrow, "his Lordship offers his apologies. After such a strenuous day, he's already retired."

That was new. The grey man had never bothered with his name before. Now he even offered a tiny bow. 'Why the sudden change?' he wondered. He shrugged as an answer.

"If you might follow me, so I can show you to your rooms, sir?"

He nodded gruffly and trailed behind him, all the while frowning at him warily. First the name, now the sir. Was it some kind of trap? He didn't think the grey man cunning enough for that, nor did he think it likely. So, it had to be something else.

His frown only deepened when Jakub held the door to the third floor open to him instead of leading him further up the stairs. "Why are we here?" he asked, hesitating to step into the antechamber.

Jakub blinked stupidly. "I am showing you to your rooms, sir," he answered simply.

" _Here_?" he had trouble keeping the shock from his face. He knew well enough that this floor was off-limits for almost all inhabitants of Lettenhove Hall. Ciri was free to come and go, of course, Janina ignored her brother's wishes as always, and he'd been tolerated the last two times he'd brought himself to come knocking on Jaskier's door. But the rest? As far as he was aware, not even the servants were allowed to enter, safe for Jakub, of course.

Now, he almost envied them. The lord's chambers made his skin crawl. The scent of fear, grief, and hatred had seeped deep into the very structure, each floorboard, curtain, and piece of furniture reeking of vinegar, onions and infected wounds. And tears. Always the salty tang of sadness— the scent clung to Jaskier, too. 'No wonder he hates his home so much.'

"This way, sir," the servant said calmly, and led him to the only of the three rooms Geralt hadn't entered yet. It was a nice room, he had to admit, far nicer than the one he had stayed in before.

He barely had a moment to take it all in — the large feather bed, the coals in the fireplace, the three additional doors — when Jakub spoke again: "Will you require any assistance with your armour, sir?"

"No," he answered as he strode over to the bed. It was a four-poster, with velvet curtains and an embroidered canopy and all. He barely dared touch the fancy quilt on top. It was _gold threaded_ , for fuck's sake.

"Do I have your leave to retire, then?" He barely registered the servant speak, still too mesmerised by the silky feel of the duvet. It _was_ silk, he realised with horror. "Sir?"

He shrugged, uncaring. "Sure." When the door shut behind him, he took the chance to thoroughly examine his new room. First, he tried the doors. Two of them were locked and he didn't dare to pry them open, but the other led to a _private bath_ of all things. Not that he'd complain, especially not when he found fairly warm water waiting for him in the washbowl. He quickly stripped off his armour, glad for the opportunity to wash off the dirt of the day spent outside.

Once clean, he continued inspecting his new chambers. They were luxurious; there was no other word for it. With a fancy tapestry, a shelf storing old poetry volumes — and one new one, untitled and without a cover, deposited on the nightstand with nothing more than a bookmark drenched in Józefa's perfume. The chest at the foot end of the bed was open and filled to the brim with warm winter clothes he wouldn't be able to refuse now. There was a desk, too, expensive parchment and goose quills next to a weapon's rack and an armour stand, where Jaskier's old wooden sword was already waiting for him.

He had the sudden overwhelming need to sit down. 'Fuck,' he thought. Who the _fuck_ wasted all of that on a _witcher_? He found himself thoroughly questioning Jaskier's sanity. The bard had never been the most proficient when it came to budgeting tasks, but this was a whole new level of ridiculousness.

He almost didn't dare settle into the bed. 'What if I break something?' To prevent that, he stripped off the quilt and two more silk blankets as well as some of the down-filled pillows, depositing them carefully on the divan.

But even wrapped in only the linen and woollen sheets, sleep didn't come easily to him. That was for an entirely different reason, though: With nothing else to occupy his mind and his eyes closed, the sounds around him grew incredibly loud. There was a cat prancing around in the dining room, Jakub settling into bed, too, and mice in the walls. 

And the worst part of all of that was that he could hear _Jaskier_ , too. The Viscount was sleeping soundly, his peaceful breath resonating loudly in Geralt's chambers. From time to time he turned onto the other side, rustling his blankets, or talked nonsensical in his sleep as he was wont to do.

It shouldn't bother him. Sixteen years they had travelled together. Sixteen years of listening to Jaskier commit to sleep just as loudly as he did everything else. They had been separated by a campfire at most, sharing beds and bedrolls more often than not when coin and temperatures were low. Why were those same sounds so infuriating now?

He knew it was kindness that Jaskier allowed him to stay in so close proximity. Still, he wondered if Jaskier knew that it was torture, too.

There was another possibility for his irritation, of course. One that Geralt didn't like to dwell on too much. Maybe it was the wall that separated them that bothered him. A physical divide adding to the emotional void between them. Maybe it was the fact that he was so used to the bard beside him. And now he wasn't. So close and yet out of reach. 'Torture.'

And yet, he didn't get up and leave. He didn't flee. If that was the prize, he had to pay to get a few precious moments with Jaskier, he'd pay it. He'd pay it a thousand times over.

Just like the oath. Geralt scoffed. He couldn't believe that Jaskier thought for even a moment that Geralt might refuse. He might be dense, but not _that_ stupid. The rest of his life at Jaskier's side? That wasn't the worst fate he could imagine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is what you wanted, right? Right? No? Ah, my bad :D  
> Any ideas where those locked doors might lead? You know that I love your theories. Leave a comment or talk to me on [tumblr](https://dhwty-writes.tumblr.com/) if you want. Also, I drew a picture of [Janina](https://dhwty-writes.tumblr.com/post/631703341988282368/the-countess-of-goldfurt-janina-pankratz-the).  
> If any of you is interested in helping me stuff a few potholes that are to come please let me know! (But be aware that that would mean I'd spoil the plot twists for you)  
> See you next week with Chapter 14 - Perilous Promises, in which we see no less than three heartfelt talks, and oath and a letter.


	15. Perilous Promises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt and quite a handful of other people find out about the marriage. It is safe to say that none of them are enthusiastic about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My guys, this is a long one. Probably the longest chapter I've ever written. Have fun with it!

Jaskier woke to the unsettling feeling of a golden cage locking around him. 'I'm doing the right thing,' he had to reassure himself, 'I threw away half of my life for Geralt already, what difference does marrying my betrothed like I'm _meant_ to do on top?' He felt hot tears well up in his throat at the thought. Even in his own mind, the words sounded bitter.

He groaned and turned over in his bed despite his better judgement. Out there, there was a rather unpleasant breakfast to weather, followed by a similarly disagreeable farewell and an even more dreadful oath he needed to pen and take. In here, at least, the only witness to his misery was himself.

For miserable he was, relinquishing his freedom deliberately for a grumpy witcher, who was sleeping not twenty feet from where he was laying, separated only by a wall and a carefully locked door. 'Maybe I should've been a fool after all,' he thought. 'It takes a special kind of imbecile simpleton to marry a person I don't love to protect another, who doesn't love me in turn.'

He had to blink some tears away. 'I won't cry about this again,' he decided. He'd done that plenty when he'd returned.

It was just that it was so _unfair_. For years and years had he followed Geralt, fighting for every hard-earned sliver of friendliness. They'd made great progress over time, really. And then, when he'd almost managed to convince Geralt to call him his friend, Yennefer had waltzed in.

'Stupid witch,' he thought almost fondly. Within the blink of an eye Geralt had fallen in love with her, quite accidentally so, lavishing her with all the affection Jaskier had yearned for for a _decade_. Oh, they had also accidentally created the most romantic love story he could fathom. Not in a hundred lifetimes could he have thought up anything quite so heart-breaking.

' _I still love him_ ,' he remembered Yennefer's words when they had gotten well and truly drunk in some luxurious tavern as far away from the Dragon Mountains as one of her portals could take them. ' _Gods help me, after everything he's done, I still love him. It's foolish, I know. I don't expect you to understand._ '

' _I do_ ,' he had confessed without knowing why, ' _if there is someone who understands loving Geralt of Rivia despite... his Geralt-ness, it's me._ '

She had shot him a pitiful glance and ordered a bottle of the best and strongest alcohol the sinfully expensive inn had to offer. He didn't remember much after that. When he woke, Yennefer was gone without a trace save for the xenovox tucked away safely in his lute case.

He wondered briefly what the sorceress would say if he told her about his bargain with the Count. She'd probably laugh her arse off, so he quickly pushed the thought away. It was definitely _not_ what he needed right now.

What he needed right now was to get up and take care of his visitors, highborn and lowborn alike. If only it wasn’t so damn difficult. ' _You're a sluggard_ ,' his father's snarling voice echoed through his memories, ' _a dawdler and a dastard who doesn't deserve to bear my name._ '

The floorboards creaked and Jaskier was on his feet before he could blink. Long-forgotten fear choked him until he remembered that the creature of his nightmares laid six feet under ground, and who it was, he shared his floor with.

'Oh,' he realised, 'Geralt's awake.' It was strange, being aware of those little things again. But not nearly as strange as living so close to the witcher _without_ knowing. 

You couldn't spend sixteen years living essentially out of each other's pockets, sharing beds and food and clothes, without knowing the ins and outs of one another. Like that Geralt always put on his left boot first. Or that he could pick a chicken clean with a knife and a fork. Or the fact that he would fall asleep to just about any lullaby after the first one and a half verses and frown and grumble in his sleep when Jaskier stopped singing. It was adorable and _that_ wasn't a word he'd ever thought he'd use in regards to the witcher.

It was only the flimsy privacy closed tavern doors provided that granted him the right to attempt to spoil Geralt of Rivia. Not much, of course, only a little. A bath, a second platter of food he'd been "gifted", or even — Melitele be good — a braid or two. And sometimes, when there'd been only one bed, and after excessive amounts of arguing, he would wake up wrapped tightly in Geralt's embrace. That had always been followed by thorough apologies on his part, but oh, how he missed that quiet domesticity.

Now, in his own home, where he had his family's frankly ridiculous wealth as well as the privacy of a whole tower at his disposal, he couldn't help but indulge in his desire to spoil his witcher, just a little bit. It brought a familiar feeling of satisfaction, just to imagine Geralt’s face upon seeing his new rooms.

If only it brought a familiar feeling of companionship, too. Geralt was _there_ , of course, he could hear his muffled grunts as he was talking to someone, but he wasn't _here_. Not within reach. Jaskier began to seriously reconsider the sensibility of his decision to move the witcher to the rooms next to his.

A door slammed and furious steps on the stairs faded away quickly. A quiet knock announced Jakub's presence.

"Come in," he answered and walked over to where his clothes were laid out for him. "How fares our resident witcher?" he asked as soon as his servant closed the door behind him.

"Fine, my lord. I reckon." He quickly scurried over to help him dress, the disgust plain on his face. "He refuses any help, though," he remarked disapprovingly. "I- forgive me, my lord, but I fear I do not have a lot of praise for him."

'Of course, he does.' Jaskier tried not to smile. 'Of course, you don't.' No, Geralt was probably as different from the very proper Jakub Wójcik as one could get. "Then you’d do better to say nothing at all.” He sighed wearily. “Let him refuse. I-" Jakub offered him a black chemise and he held up his hand. "No, the mourning's almost done. I think it's time for a speck of colour."

"Quite, my lord," his servant agreed. "The dark blue one, perhaps?"

He wrinkled his nose. "No, actually, I was thinking the red one. Is it too bold, do you think?"

"It certainly isn't," Jakub assured him. "I'll fetch it, my lord."

"Good," Jaskier said, lost in thought as he bent to tie his garters himself. "Where was I?" He asked when Jakub returned and held the shirt out for him.

"I shall let the witcher refuse my help."

"Right!" his voice was muffled by the shirt over his head. "I won't-," he pulled it down and began stuffing it into the waistband of his breeches, "-force luxuries he doesn't want upon him."

Jakub looked at him incredulously as he held the doublet open for him.

"Now, don't give me that look," he chided softly, trying to keep his voice low. Geralt could probably hear him nevertheless. "Let me luxuriate in his inability to refuse."

"Of course, Master Julian," he answered and began buttoning up the doublet.

He very nearly pouted. "Now you're being insolent. I can't believe my father let you act up like this."

"He didn't," Jakub replied and smoothed out the last wrinkles before backing a step up. "Though until now I was under the impression that your desire to model yourself after his Lordship was minimal at best."

"You're right," he shuddered and shook his head. Without wanting to, he remembered the terrible accusation Janina had laid at his feet. ‘You were wrong,’ he thought bitterly. ‘Father sold all of us without thinking twice about it. I’m not like him. I’ll never be like him. I mustn’t be.’ Death would be a mercy compared to that. "Better keep reminding me, will you? The sword?"

"Here, my lord."

"Thank you." He tied it to his belt. "How do I look?" He flashed him the brightest smile he was capable of.

"Almost not forced at all, Master Julian."

"Good," he exhaled forcefully. "I guess this is the best I can do today. The witcher?"

"Downstairs, my lord. In the kitchens, I believe."

"The brute," he scoffed. "Lord Hangfelt and our other esteemed guests?"

"Still asleep, as far as I'm aware."

'Finally, some good fucking news,' he thought grimly. "Give me a warning when they wake, will you? I'll go try and coax our witcher out of the kitchen."

Jakub wrinkled his nose but didn't say anything as he bent to pick up his lord's carelessly discarded clothing while Jaskier slipped out his door. He did his best to measure his steps, trying to dutifully fill the role of the dignified lord he was supposed to be.

The emphasis on supposed. Because dignified lords did not hide runaway princesses and stray witchers from their lieges. Dignified lords weren't infatuated with the very same witcher. Dignified lords didn't long to be bards and leave the pigsty they called their home behind, to go travel with said runaway princess and stray witcher. A real smile tugged on the corner of his mouth. 'I hope you're proud of me, father,' he mocked and pushed the door to the kitchens open.

Geralt was leaning against the kitchen counter, munching on some fresh bread and... chatting amiably. With Ana, his head cook, no less. For a short moment he was stunned speechless. "Witcher!" he called as soon as he had regained his ability to form full sentences. "What on earth are you _doing_?"

They both turned to him and shot each other conspiratorial glances. 'Bastard.' "Having breakfast, my lord," he responded with a smug grin and held up the slice of bread, coated with a thick layer of butter, as proof.

"Yes, I can see that. Eat up and come with me, now."

He quickly did as he was told and followed outside again, but not before exchanging a few more words with Ana that were too quiet for Jaskier to hear.

"You look awful, by the way," the Viscount remarked as they made their way back to the North Wing.

The witcher muttered something that sounded an awful lot like "You don't say."

"What was that?" he inquired.

"Didn't sleep a lot," Geralt grunted. When he turned to him with a raised eyebrow, he averted his gaze. "Got home awfully late, my lord."

"Oh." Why was he disappointed at that response? 'Dammit, Jaskier, get a grip!' What had he even hoped for? Something foolish, surely. "I'm sorry for that."

"Don't be. I wanted to thank yo- Jaskier, are you alright?"

No, he wasn't. He had just tripped over thin air and would have fallen flat on his face, had Geralt not caught him in time. "Of course." He stood upright again, dusting off his unsoiled clothes just to have something to do that was not looking at the witcher. "I just thought you had said you wanted to thank me...?"

"I did." Even from the corner of his eye he could see him tilt his head in question. "For your generosity, my lord." He even bowed, for Melitele's sake.

"Yeah, yeah, sure, don't fret," Jaskier murmured and quickly continued his way to the North Wing. "If there's anything else you need, do not hesitate to ask."

"As my lord commands."

He rolled his eyes and couldn’t quite fight the heat rising in his cheeks. "Alright, now you're piling it on too much. Cut it."

Even if he couldn't see it, he could hear the smile in Geralt's voice when he said: "Right. So, where are we going?"

"Breakfast," Jaskier answered simply.

"I just had breakfast."

"I know. But that’s on you, really, because now you'll have a second breakfast." Two guards pushed the doors for the hall open. "With my other guests."

He turned around just in time to see the smug expression vanish from Geralt's face. "Most certainly not," he announced and turned on his heel. "I'm leaving again."

"You won't do any such thing, thank you very much," Jaskier huffed and the doors fell shut before Geralt’s nose. "I know you've got manners _somewhere_ beneath this gruff exterior, and you will put them to good use."

Geralt turned, the anger in his eyes enough to make battle-hardened warriors pee their pants. He made a sound akin to hissing though it had absolutely no effect on Jaskier. "Fine," he grumbled and went to stand behind the Viscount.

He nearly laughed out loud. 'Silly witcher,' he thought. 'For me, that gaze is almost adoring.' After about a minute of silent waiting Jaskier's hands began to fidget. He wanted to stop it, _really_ , but there was nothing he could _do_ against it. No-one could, more's the pity. His parents had tried to beat it out of him, as had various tutors, some lovers had tried to fuck it out of him, and he had tried to jig and sing it out. All very much unsuccessfu-

"My lord," Geralt growled softly and hooked his pinkie finger around Jaskier's. "No need to be nervous." The infuriating twitching continued.

"I know," Jaskier sighed exasperated and turned to him. "I can't do anything about it!”

“Hm,” Geralt answered thoughtfully. “Just hold on tight.”

He huffed and turned away again. Without really wanting to do so, he squeezed his finger tighter with his own. And impossibly the fidgeting grew fainter. 

The doors burst open and they sprung apart. Immediately, his fingers started wiggling again. ‘Shit.’

"Pankratz!" Lord Hangfelt boomed, the rest of his party trailing into the hall behind him. ‘So much for the warning.’ "You scoundrel, put me right in the room facing east! How's anyone supposed to sleep with the sun shining that bright?"

"Terribly sorry, my lord," he said, trying to regain his posture, but his comment went ignored.

"Is that your witcher?" Hangfelt didn't wait for an answer. "I have heard many a tale of your heroics, sir. I was terribly discontented upon hearing of your... _excursion_ upon my arrival."

"Forgive my absence, my lord," Geralt said and bowed dutifully. "Had I known of your impending visit, I'd have postponed my hunting trip."

The Count grinned. "Was it successful, in the very least?"

"I'm afraid not, my lord," the witcher replied.

"Ha!" Roman Milas shouted, nearly swaying on his feet. 'Gods above and below,' Jaskier thought, 'is he already drunk?' "What kind of shit witcher are you if you can't even hunt regular animals?"

"Oh no, I definitely can," Geralt replied snarkily and he could feel everyone in the hall drawing in a sharp breath. "Provided there are no drunkards rampaging through the woods and chasing away the game."

Jaskier raised his eyebrows and bit down hard on his lip while he averted his gaze, trying to figure out an appropriate apology without implying further that Roman Milas was, in fact, a debauchee. 'Way to ruin the deal I bought you, Geralt.' He dreaded the contract Hangfelt would force down his throat already.

He was saved by Lord Hangfelt himself who said sourly: "And more's the pity, for I would have loved some venison for breakfast."

"As would I," Janina said from the door and curtsied gracefully. Ciri followed suit, only a bit wobbly in her grace. Aleksander the Younger was at her side almost immediately, offering up his arm. Jaskier resisted the urge to snap at him to leave her alone. By the looks of Geralt's tense shoulders he shared that sentiment, though his clenched fists allured to the fact that harsh words were rather preferable to the methods the witcher had in mind to get him away from his child surprise.

"And you are in luck!" Glad for the easy transition, Jaskier whirled around to go and pull the chair back for his lord. "We have formidable smoked sausages, if it please you."

"It does," the Count replied as he sat down, the rest of the party following suit. "Also, you should take better care of my roads. I won't have any drunken poachers stealing my game."

Geralt shot him a pointed glance that quickly turned into a deep frown when Jaskier shooed him away from the place at his right hand, only to pull back the chair for Lady Alina. He didn't say a word, though — thank the gods — as he went to sit down opposite to him.

"I ask you to excuse my sister's absence, my lord," Janina said as she sat down. "She isn't feeling well this morning."

Jaskier raised a curious eyebrow. That was very much unlike Józefa. Janina just shook her head, so he continued to call the servants in with platters of sausages, cold meat, wheels of cheese and freshly baked loaves of bread.

He served Lord Hangfelt himself and kept an idle conversation with Lady Alina about everything and nothing at the same time, all while feeling Geralt's burning golden glare on him. He tracked every move, every twitch of his fingers, scarcely eating anything. Even when he responded to the ignorant questions about his profession, his eyes never left the slashes in Jaskier's doublet where the dark fabric of his shirt spilled through. He was also frowning deeply, as if his stare alone could make the offensive colour vanish again.

Jaskier turned his blind eye to that. The witcher had complained about his clothing before. 'Peacocking' he had called it. 'Well, that's his problem. Just because he wouldn't be caught dead in anything more colourful than pitch black, doesn't mean I have to. He'll simply have to get used to it again.'

Jaskier, at the moment, had more important things to worry about. Like entertaining his guests while gracefully dodging the invitations to play a song or two. With every rejection Geralt's frown deepened. 'You've got no right to my songs,' he thought angrily. 'I already told you as much.'

The breakfast dragged on entirely too long and was entirely too stressful for the early hour. Every time Geralt and Ciri so much as opened their mouths he and Janina flinched, praying — of all things, Jaskier was _praying_ now — for them not to say anything too insulting. They didn't. ‘Thank the fucking gods.’

And then, finally, the Count announced that they would be taking their leave. Jaskier stood outside in the court with Geralt and Janina at his back, one protective arm curled around Ciri as Lord Hangfelt mounted his horse.

"I have to admit, Pankratz," he huffed as he straightened himself in the saddle, "it was a pleasure. Been quite some time since I last came here, I almost forgot how beautiful it is."

"I am humbled to hear such high praise. You know you are always welcome in Lettenhove." He bowed his head. "Safe travels, my lord. I trust that we see each other soon."

"Oh, I believe we will. You wouldn't miss your own husband’s banquet, would you, Lady Goldfurt?"

"I couldn't," she agreed with a forced smile, "I miss him so very dearly."

"In three weeks’ time, then, Lord Lettenhove. I'll bring the contract." He wheeled his horse around and led the other visitors out the gates. As soon as the last of them had left, Jaskier dismissed his three companions.

While Ciri and Janina went back to the North Wing only too gladly, Geralt continued to hover closely at his side. "Contract?" he sounded almost curious. "What is he talking about?"

Jaskier sighed heavily and his knees buckled beneath him as he collapsed on the stairs leading back to the East Wing. "I'm getting married," he groaned, unable to keep the pain this thought caused him from his face.

At least Geralt wasn't much better at keeping his emotions in check: " _What?!_ " he snapped, anger and surprise written plain on his features.

"What?" Jaskier laughed hoarsely. "I already told you, my shelter comes not without a cost."

"But-" the words failed him; his fists clenched tightly at his sides.

The Viscount shook his head "Did you think you'd be the one paying it? You've got nothing to barter with, besides a few bruises to your ego. I do. I did."

"Barter?" he sneered and hauled him up by the collar of his expensive doublet. "Tell me you're joking."

"I'm not," he replied calmly. "Let go of me, you're tearing the seams."

"That's what you're worried about?" he spit out.

Jaskier's eyelids fluttered close. 'Yes, Geralt,' he answered silently, _'that's_ what I'm worried about. Because if I allow myself to be worried about anything else, I'll start breaking down. And that's not what either Ciri or you need right now.'

The witcher wasn't finished yet. "This is not what we agreed upon," he seethed. "You're... you're selling your body, your mind, and your soul to a woman you don't even know!"

"Yes, witcher. It's called politics. It's what I've been raised to do." He tugged at his hands. "Now let go of me, you brute."

Geralt dropped his hands as if he'd been burned and Jaskier nearly fell on his arse again. "You shouldn't have- Shouldn't have to. And shouldn't have done it."

"I told you, there's no going back now. Besides, it's worth it, if-" he straightened himself as he choked on his own words. "My liege can't get rid of me that easily now. Not when I'm his blood. I might even gain a new title when the time comes." He took a deep breath. "Go now, witcher. I've got an oath to write.

"Ja- my lord-"

He held up his hand to shut him up. "Not now, Geralt. Just... not now." With that he vanished inside to hole himself up in his study, where Jakub was already waiting for him.

"I'll be in need of my father's templates now," he told him as soon as he settled behind his desk. "And a report, if you please."

"There appears to have been some kind of disagreement between Lord Hangfelt and Lord Roman," he replied dutifully as he presented him with the blank contract. "I could not tell you what it was about, though Marta said the Lady Alina was involved, too. After that Lord Roman poured himself a drink."

"Hm," Jaskier answered and skimmed over the text. "That won't do," he decided and whipped out a new sheet of paper to pen his own oath. "And what do the servants whisper regarding that disagreement?"

Jakub shifted from one foot to another. "It is said that Lord Roman is more than unhappy with your renewed engagement."

He laughed. "Oh, that is surely true. Poor lad, he'll never get to marry." Not as the fifth son of some minor count, at least. "I do not doubt that a new brother-in-law is anathema to him."

"I could not say, my lord," he said uncomfortably.

"No, I suppose you could not," he replied and began writing in bold letters. "What about my sister? She has not fallen ill, I pray?"

"As far as I am aware, no, my lord. Unless you consider the aversion to Lord Hangfelt's advances an illness."

He chuckled softly. "No, I do not. That's everything for now."

He bowed curtly, though hovered nearby for just a moment longer. Jaskier raised an eyebrow. “Yes, Jakub?”

“My lord, I do not want to presume…”

He leaned back and frowned. “Oh no, please do. I’d be more than glad to hear it.”

“The Lady Józefa seems distant these days,” he said slowly. “If truth be told, I am worried.”

“Hm,” Jaskier answered. “I’ll talk to her. Thank you, Jakub.”

With that his servant left him to his work. It was dreadfully boring and were the matter not so pressing, he'd never complete it, he knew. 'It's for Geralt,' he kept telling himself as he trimmed the flowery phrases that bloomed from his mind until only withered stumps remained. 'For Geralt and Ciri.'

He was almost done, when the door burst open without so much as a warning and nearly knocked the ugly vase from its pedestal. He clicked his tongue in disapproval. "Now that's no behaviour for a young lady," he chided softly.

"I don't _want_ to be a lady," Ciri quipped and righted the vase again.

"And I won't force you to be one," he said with a smile. "At least close the door, will you? We wouldn't want the whole keep to eavesdrop, hm?"

She huffed what was probably an insult, but did it all the same before hopping up onto his desk. "What are you writing?" she asked curiously.

"An oath of fealty," he told her and finished the last letter with a flourish. "Read it, if you want to."

"Hm." She swung her legs idly. "No, thank you. That sounds very boring."

He chuckled. "It is. I believe that's the second most boring text I've ever written."

"Tell me about the first most boring text," she asked eagerly.

"Why?" he asked more than just a little surprised. "It's boring."

"Then make it un-boring!" she demanded.

Oh, and how could he refuse such a request? "Alright," he said with a sly smile and leaned back in his own chair. "It was my last semester at the Academy; I already knew I would graduate with excellent marks in about any subject. With only one exception: rhetoric."

She giggled and he shot her a sharp look. "Don't laugh, it's the truth. Our professor — gods, I can't even remember his _name_ — was the most ordinary person you can possibly imagine. You know these people who have a face that you forget while you're still looking at them? Yeah, he was like that. And his voice, _gods_. I don't even know how I stayed awake during his lectures." He did, though his methods had been highly unorthodox and were decidedly unfit for the ears of little girls.

He waved the thought away quickly: "Anyways, he hated my guts. No matter what I did, what _any_ of us did, we always received truly _abysmal_ grades. And then it was time for my final thesis. Half of us were convinced we'd fail our studies just because of that professor with less charisma than a rock. I didn't, of course. In fact, he's the reason why I graduated summa cum laude."

"How?" she asked eagerly.

"Easy." He smirked in memory. "I wrote the most boring text in the history of literature. On fifty pages I didn't use a single stylistic device and the grand total of seven commas and one semicolon."

"That sounds dreadful!" she gasped.

"It was," he agreed wholeheartedly. "My professor proclaimed it a masterpiece. Actually, come to think of it, I could probably order a copy from the faculty."

"Please do," she squealed.

"I will. But don't you dare drool on it when you inevitably fall asleep."

Ciri giggled and shook her head. "I won't, I won't," she promised. "Can you tell me more stories of your time in Oxenfurt? Please, Jaskier, I would love to hear them!"

He smiled benevolently. "If you insist. Come on, I won't do so in this horrible chair." As soon as they had relocated themselves to the armchairs, Jaskier began talking while he tried to push the uncomfortable memories of him kneeling before Hangfelt away.

He didn't know how many stories he told before he had talked his throat raw and begged for mercy. As soon as silence settled over them again, the mood shifted again. Ciri hugged her knees close to her chest and settled her cheek on them, observing the early winter storm that shook the last leaves that clung to the trees from the branches and whipped them against the windows.

'Shit,' he thought and extended his hand to her, unsure what else to do. "Ciri," he asked softly, "will you tell me why you came here?"

For a while she didn't say anything. Then, she grabbed his hand, squeezing it tight enough that it almost hurt. "You know," she piped up, "Geralt said he likes it here."

"He does?" The sudden confession surprised him.

She nodded and cast her eyes downward, gnawing nervously on her lower lip. "Do you want to know a secret?" she asked after just when Jaskier began to grow fidgety.

"You know secrets are my favourite currency," he tried to lighten the mood. There was a little game they played, when they told each other secrets and lies and had to figure out which was which. Ciri was becoming quite proficient at it.

She scrunched her nose. "I do. But... This is a different secret. Not to be sold. It's, uh... it's really important."

His eyes widened slightly. "Alright," he agreed quickly and scooted closer. "You know that you don't have to tell me, right?" he tried to assure her.

"Yeah," Ciri answered and squeezed his hand tighter. "But I want to. I trust you, Jaskier."

'Oh,' he thought, taken aback. He hadn't even considered that, she was just here for the winter, she didn't need to, and why was his heart beating in his throat all of a sudden?

Before he could contemplate that further, she began talking again: "Sometimes, I have nightmares," she confessed quietly and Jaskier's heart sank. 'Melitele, give me strength.' He could barely handle his own dreams, nevermind the terrors of a child. "Geralt used to be... it sounds weird, don't laugh, but it's true, he was helpless! Just... nearly sobbing, too."

He frowned. He could scarcely believe that to be true. "You said used to be. So, he's not anymore?"

"No. There's... he told me sometimes you have to replace a bad fantasy by a good one. 'Ciri', he said, 'you need to see the beauty in the world. A ruin might be broken, but cover it with ivy and wildflowers and it's an enchanted cottage sprung from a fairy tale.' So, we did. Cover the ruin with flowers, that is."

He raised his eyebrows. " _Geralt_ told you that?"

"He did. Why?"

"Nevermind," he mumbled. 'Because I was the one to tell _him_. I was rambling and composing; he wasn't listening, as per usual.' Only that he had been, apparently. "What fantasy did you replace it with?"

"What it would be like to stay. Just, you know... not leave again. Have a home." She sighed dreamily as a lump formed in Jaskier's throat. "You could continue teaching me, both of you. We'd be warm and safe and steal sweets from Ana. I'd like that. Wouldn't you?"

For a moment, Jaskier allowed himself to sink into that fantasy, too. He could take Ciri with him as his father had done, to solve the little squabbles his subjects had. They could have large happy dinners and warm tiny ones, just the three of them. He'd have to buy two new horses, of course, for the both of them. A noble gelding for Ciri and a common bay mare for Geralt, as he preferred. And Geralt could train them, if he wanted to.

The witcher could continue to take contracts, too, Jaskier would hand him his reins and fix his collar before he went, and he and Ciri would wait for him. Or maybe they would even go with him, when she was a bit older. It was a tiny sliver of paradise, a wonderful daydream he'd fantasised about so many times already.

And that was all it ever would be, he knew. A fantasy. There was no place on this earth where it could come true.

Still, he answered: "Yeah, I'd like that very much."

Only because he wanted to see that wistful expression on her face for a little longer, only because he knew his own mirrored hers. It turned sour way too quickly. "It could be true," she whispered.

A pained grimace flitted across his face. "No, Ciri, it couldn't."

"That's not true," she spat defiantly.

That statement was enough to punch the air from his lungs and he had to sit back against the backrest of his armchair. 'Huh,' he thought a bit impressed, 'so the cublet had got claws.'

Ignoring his bafflement, she continued: "Geralt told me about... Geralt told me. And... I'm not stupid, Jaskier. I grew up like this. I know what you did." She looked up at him with wide watery eyes. "You could've said yes, you know? He's nice. I could've married him."

"Oh, Ciri," his voice nearly broke. "No, you don't know what you're talking about."

"Yes, I do! You're unhappy because of us and I could've changed it. I was betrothed before; I know how it works." She scoffed, looking much older than her mere ten years. "I'm a princess, Jaskier. Princesses don't marry for love."

"You're a child," he disagreed softly, "and children don't marry at all. I had twenty years to cotton up to the fact I'd be marrying Lady Alina."

"But we could've stayed." There were tears in her eyes now. "You could've stayed reunited with Geralt, we could've stayed here, and I could've stayed pretending to be your child."

He cupped her cheek gently. "No, dearest. You're destiny's child. And I mustn't interfere."

"This is so _unfair_ ," she insisted, her voice an agonised whine instead of angry, and Jaskier’s heart clenched.

‘I know, I know,’ his mind screamed and oh, how he wanted to agree. How he wanted to take her by the hand and flee with her to the roof of the highest tower, where they could scream and sob against the injustice of the world, hoping their voices might be enough to shake the earth from its cruel roots. 

He might’ve done that. Jaskier the bard might’ve done that, a lifetime ago, when he’d been a mere bard, singing a lone wolf’s praises. But Julian of Lettenhove? He couldn’t. So, he didn’t. He squeezed her hand gently. “Sometimes, life is. Sometimes, life isn’t,” he consoled her instead. He gnawed on his lip, desperately trying to think of something, and then he spoke, as usual, without stopping to think for even a moment: “You know, when you leave, it might be goodbye, but not farewell. You’ll always be welcome to come home.”

“You promise?” she asked hopefully.

Jaskier hesitated for only a moment. ‘No,’ he thought truthfully, ‘I can’t promise you something like that.’ But at the moment the urge to soothe a child was stronger than the improbability of the statement. “I do.”

For some reason that seemed to soothe her. "Thanks," she said and wrenched her hand away to wipe at her eyes.

"Ciri," he pleaded quietly, understanding Geralt's apparent helplessness much better all of the sudden.

"I'm _fine_ ," she insisted and stood up, the perfect image of composure.

'No, you aren't,' he wanted to insist, 'and you don't have to be. You're a child who was forced to grow up way too soon. You don't have to keep pretending anymore.' But there was something in her eyes that kept him from voicing his thoughts.

"And now I am going to visit Józefa," she announced before strode from his study and there was nothing, he could do about it.

He was still attempting to order that turmoil of emotions that warred against each other within him, when suddenly Geralt was in front of him, Janina on his heels. Jaskier frowned, unsure what to make of that.

"Jakub said you're done," Geralt said in his usual taciturn manner.

"Alright?" he heard himself say. Had Ciri notified him? She had to, for he was certain that Jakub hadn't come in since she had left.

"Let's get this over with," the witcher grumbled.

"I can't believe I am saying this, but I am inclined to agree," Janina spoke up and snatched the document from the desk to read through it. “Why are you storing your dirty quill on Father’s carpet?” she asked casually.

Jaskier frowned. “I’m not.” But when he turned to look, he saw that she was right, the ink staining the fine fabric. “Huh,” he said quietly. He could’ve sworn that he had put it far away enough from the edge that it couldn’t roll down. Geralt bent to pick it up, frowning as well. 

"Thanks," Jaskier said and sat up straighter in his armchair. "Come on, then."

Geralt walked over to him while Janina still read through the oath with furrowed brows. "There's a spelling mistake," she informed him, snappy.

He nearly groaned. "That's not what's important about this, Janka." What was important was that it meant Geralt's safety. And, in a form it also meant an end to their hostilities. Jaskier doubted that the witcher understood that meaning, though.

"It's embarrassing," she huffed.

"It's beside the point. Geralt?"

He wrinkled his nose in obvious disdain. "Does she have to be here?" he asked loud enough for her to hear.

"Yes, absolutely. We need at least one witness, Geralt, else we could just forego this whole ordeal."

Geralt grunted something non-committal. "What do I have to do?"

"Nothing much," Jaskier shrugged. "Kneel and read the words out loud. Then we both sign, as does Janina, and I seal the damned thing."

He clenched his teeth tightly. But to Jaskier's surprise the witcher didn't complain any longer and went to his knees before him. Jaskier held out his hands expectantly. Geralt didn't move.

'Oh, right.' Geralt hadn't been trained since his birth for that moment. He didn't know the words and gestures by heart. In general, this was probably very new to him. "You have to give me your hands," he told him. "Like so." He pressed his palms together to show him.

Geralt extended his hands slowly. They were cold to the touch like always when Jaskier clasped them firmly. They would warm up soon enough.

"Now, swear. For the oath of fealty's sake, that needs be sworn to me and my heirs with these words,” he began with the traditional words.

The witcher looked up at him and wet his lips with his tongue. ‘Oh,’ Jaskier realised with surprise, ‘He’s nervous, too.’ He squeezed his hands a bit tighter, to reassure him, maybe, or to reassure himself, he did neither know nor care. And then, finally, he started talking, only ever tearing his eyes from Jaskier’s, when he wasn’t sure about the words anymore.

"In ancient custom I, Geralt of Rivia, swear this to my lord, Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove, son of Viscount Alfred and Daria. As it is well known that I am in need of protection, I turned to your benevolence and, by my own volition, reached the decision to commend myself to your _mund_. 

“For I am loyal to my lord from this day to the end of my life without deceit and malice. I am faithful to you and you alone, and offer my service and obedience as a man shall serve his lord in his reign and right, his peace and protection. Never will I raise my hand to cause you harm. Should harm befall you from any other, I will be your shield and sword to guard your life and slay your enemies. 

“In life, there shan't be a way to elude your grace and governance, but I have to live beneath your shield and strength. And this oath I keep and will keep, as I know and understand, from this day forth, so help me the gods great and small."

‘Good. That’s that. My turn.’ Jaskier’s voice quivered only a little when he spoke: "I, Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove, accept your oath, Geralt of Rivia. Protection you sought and protection you will receive. From this day until the end of my life, I will clothe you and feed you, that you may serve me as a man shall serve his lord in my reign and right, my peace and protection. In freedom you shall serve and obey me. 

“In life there shan’t be a way to elude my duty and due to you, but you shall be cloaked in the mantle of protection that is my name. And this oath I keep and will keep, as I know and understand, from this day forth, so help me the gods great and small." 

He bent down and kissed him on the forehead and Geralt jerked back, almost redrawing his hands. Jaskier felt sick when seeing his agonised expression and hesitated for just a moment.

'No,' he told himself, 'I can worry about that later.' Right now, he had to complete the ceremony. So, he said: "Be welcome to my house and peace, liegeman." He dropped his hands to his side. "You may rise now."

Before Geralt had the chance to do so, he fled his own seat to where Janina was already signing the contract. "Go," he told her quietly as he put his own signature beneath it.

Janina scoffed and shot him a pitiful glance, but luckily, she left his study quickly enough.

Jaskier was fumbling with the sealing wax when he heard Geralt's voice behind him: "Where do I have to sign?"

He whirled around and came face to face with the witcher, barely an arm length of distance between them. "I, ah- There." Blindly, he pointed at the only free space on the contract and turned to warm the wax again. "You can go as soon as you're done.

There was the tell-tale sign of a quill scratching over parchment and Geralt scoffed. "No, I don't think so," he said and stepped aside to let Jaskier pour the wax onto the document and stamp it with his signet ring. "You won't get rid of me that easily now."

"Geralt-," he began exasperated and strode across the room to file the record with the rest of the oaths of fealty.

"No," he interrupted him, following behind with large strides, "you will listen to me. I am bound to you now and I won't let them lay a finger on you."

He huffed sadly and turned to him. "That's a nice sentiment," he said. "Though when the snow thaws you will leave and we both know it."

Geralt was furious, sparks flying from his golden eyes. "Do you think I'll just forget all of this come spring? I told you last night as much and I just swore to you, too. I won’t _abandon_ you."

"Oh, Geralt." He couldn't resist cupping his cheek gently. "As much as I appreciate it, please don't. Don't make promises you can't keep. Come spring you and Ciri will go, and I will wed. As it is supposed to be." He patted his cheek softly and he saw the tension leave his body. "Until then I am sure you will be the most loyal of my servants. So now, do your duty and go."

He withdrew his hand, but Geralt grasped it tightly. "A gift I ask from you, my lord?" he ground out.

Jaskier scowled. He had told him he only needed ask if there was something he wanted. And he was a man of his word, after all. "What do you want?"

"Nothing but your honesty." He dropped the hand. "Was it truly the only way? Was there nothing else you could have offered?"

His heart clenched painfully. "Geralt," he pleaded quietly, "you don't want to know."

"Yes, I do," the witcher disagreed stubbornly. "What was it, Jaskier? What on earth is more valuable than your freedom? Fuck, for how long have you tried to escape all of this? And now you give it up willingly? I don't even know you anymore!"

"It was Ciri!" he blurted out. "It was Ciri's hand in marriage he asked for. He thinks her my daughter and he wants her to marry his heir to bind me to him."

"Wh-what?" Geralt stuttered and stumbled a few paces backwards. "Why didn't you agree?"

A pained expression took over Jaskier's carefully composed face. "How could I? How could I sell her freedom for yours?"

"How could you sell yours?" He sounded pained. "It would've been a lie. It would've been pretend, like all of this."

"No, Geralt." He shook his head. "It isn't. Not anymore." 'Not for me, at least,' he added silently.

"You could have broken it in spring-"

"Do you even know what it costs to break an engagement?" he roared. "I can't, Geralt, don't you understand? It will be hard enough to explain where she went in spring as it is, I don't need a broken engagement that costs a fortune on top of that!" He picked up his unread letters, hoping Geralt would get the hint.

He didn't. Jaskier nearly wept. "What are you going to do?"

"Nothing, obviously," he responded strained. "I hoped I'd get a few more years, but alas, I do not. I marry her, treat her kindly, and hope I get an heir and a spare on her soon. After that, she can do whatever she likes." 'And I can look for another lover, too.'

"No," the witcher said decidedly. "No, I won't allow that. Call him back. Tell him you agree. I demand-"

"You are in no position to demand anything, liegeman," Jaskier interrupted him coldly. "The only position you are in is to obey my orders. And I _order_ you to drop the matter and _go_!" He squeezed past the witcher and went over to his liquor cabinet. "I plan to get roaringly drunk now. _Alone_. I deserve it."

"I think-"

He held up a hand and cut him off, draining his first cup. "No. You are not in my service to think. Leave that to the horses, they have bigger heads. Go."

"No, _my lord_ , I am in your service to _protect_ you."

"Well, then, you're in luck!" He swirled around and made a grand gesture. "Once you leave me alone there will be nothing left to protect me from."

He shot a pointed glare to the liquor in his hands. As an answer he drank a few sips straight from the bottle. Agony spread on Geralt's face. "Jaskier-"

"No!" he growled. "We talked about this. You don't get to use that name anymore. Call me Julian, if you must. Better call me nothing at all."

The witcher stared for a few moments in bewilderment before lowering his gaze to the ground. "I'm sorry."

"You don't even know what you're sorry _for_ , you imbec-"

This time it was Geralt who interrupted him: "No, my lord, we're not doing this now. Get drunk if you must. Then get sober again. Then we can lead this conversation." He turned and walked to the door. "I'll see to it that Ciri doesn't come here. She doesn't need to see you like this." He shook his head. "She looks up to you, you know."

He didn't know why there were tears on his face. "Just go!" he shouted, sobbed, snivelled. And finally, Geralt did.

Jaskier stumbled against the wall and sank gracelessly to the floor. "Fuck," he whimpered. Then, again emphatically: "Fuck!" He couldn't recall when he'd last felt that miserable in his life. It was just an oath. An oath that was real for one winter, to be forgotten in spring when Geralt inevitably left for Kaer Morhen and left Jaskier behind. It shouldn't be that taxing.

But, gods, the look on Geralt's face- He raised the pitcher to his lips again and nearly threw up. 'Oh great,' he thought bitterly, 'Now he's ruined my mood to get drunk, too.'

With a groan he pushed himself to his feet again and deposited the pitcher in the cabinet. If he couldn't get drunk, he might as well read his letters.

There weren't a lot of them — thank the fucking gods — but one of them was as heavy as a short novel and just as thick. He wrinkled his nose and for a moment he contemplated just tossing it into the fireplace. That would serve the idiot who deemed it fit to send such a monstrosity right.

The only thing keeping him from doing so was the name written on the front. 'Jaskier' it said. Not 'Julian Alfred Pankratz' or 'The Viscount Lettenhove'. Briefly he wondered who it might be from — an admirer, maybe, or an old friend from Oxenfurt — and broke the seal, upending the contents of the envelope onto his desk.

The first thing he noticed wasn't the dozen pages that thumped out, or the fact that they were scented heavily. No, it was the pressed lily-of-the-valley, that settled into his lap.

'Oh,' he realised with surprise. 'I know that idiot.' In fact, he probably knew that idiot better than anyone else in his life.

A fond smile spread on his face as he began reading the letter. _Dearest brother_ , it said, _I might have known you were a cad and a scoundrel, but I have to admit I am truly offended. Nearly two years have passed since your return to the dungeon of our youth and not once have you seen it fit to escape your prison to come and sweeten my own more permanent incarceration. Do you hold me in such little regard that you cannot be bothered to pluck a beautiful blossom as you are, too, from where she was bound into a bouquet of despair? Believe me, Buttercup, I tell you true, Kerton is as dreary a place as there ever was one; our home is paradise on earth in comparison._

Pages upon pages she went on to describe her truly dreadful life in her husband's home, the description of harsh reality that was her life laced with clever wordplays that made him chuckle and shake his head and choke. Before he knew it, he had reached the last page.

 _Alas_ , his sister wrote, _my husband has adopted the most embarrassing habit of underestimating my person, as the men of this world are wont to do. A flower I might be, yet I do not sit idly, as you well know. I am Justyna of Lettenhove and justice I will bring. May the gods allow me to begin this journey of delivered righteousness by rectifying the wrong that is our prolonged estrangement._

_I have no interest in greeting you in black, Buttercup, but you would do well to keep your gates open for me as soon as the mummers' farce we are compelled to call mourning is done. I count the days until I can hold you in my loving embrace again._

_Your faithful sister,_

_Konwalia_

With a quiet huff he put the letter down. When the mourning was done, she had said. That meant that she would arrive in two days — he did not doubt she'd be here as soon as possible. Oddly, he was looking forward to it.

Justyna had always been the dearest to him of all his sisters. Only one year apart in age they'd been inseparable. She wasn't like Janka, twisted with crippling perfectionism since before she could walk, or absent like Jolanta, who had left for Novigrad at the age of seven as a ward, or a baby like Józefa. Justyna was his other half and together they had been the terror of Lettenhove, always loud and brash and mischievous. Oh, it had been so long since they had seen each other.

They had missed so much of each other's lives and for a dreadful moment he feared that she might truly resent him for it. He hadn't been there when the dashing young Baron of Kerton had swept her away to marry her, nor when her three children had been born. She hadn't seen him graduate and grow and crumble again, only to rebuild himself. 'What if we don't recognise each other anymore?'

He took a deep steadying breath, inhaling the familiar scent that clung to the paper. 'It's still the same perfume,' he realised with relief, 'even after twenty years.' Another breath and he was on his feet. "It will be alright," he told himself and headed to the door of his study.

Probably, it would be a good thing, too. Justynka hadn't mentioned bringing her children with her, but he could scarcely imagine her to leave them behind. They hadn't seen their uncle in all their life, after all. 'And maybe then I can cure Ciri's loneliness.' Children weren't supposed to spend their life with adults as only companions. 'And royal children aren't supposed to spend their life with servants as their companions.'

He went and tracked down Jakub, so that he might spread the news among the household — for his sisters to rejoice, for the servants to steel themselves, for Geralt to mean nothing at all. After relaying the message, he found himself standing in the courtyard, feeling altogether rather lost in his own home.

But that was only for a moment before his feet started moving on their own volition. Despite his better judgement Jaskier found himself climbing the steps of his tower. He dropped the keys to the attic three times before he managed to open the door. Hidden beneath dusty carpets and moth-infested curtains, his lute was waiting for him, tucked away safely in its trusty case. His fingers itched when he opened it and he almost gave in to the temptation to lift it up and play a few chords. But that wasn't what he was here for, and besides, he had sworn to never do it again; so, he dug deeper. Before he knew what madness had befallen him, he held the xenovox in his hands.

He sighed. Now he was there already. He raised the little box to his lips, not entirely sure how to use it. "Yennefer?" he whispered warily, as if the thing could blow up in his face. Knowing the sorceress that wasn't entirely unlikely. "Are you there?"

Nothing.

He scoffed. "Now that's a good start. Stupid gadget." He shook it a bit but heard nothing. "Oh, great," he grumbled. "The blasted thing is probably broken. Or a fake. Or I am just too dumb to use it. Sure, Yennefer, brilliant idea. Leave the magical artefact with the bard, but don't leave a manual. I mean, really, she should know that I know nothing of witchery-"

"Great gods have mercy," he nearly dropped the box when it suddenly began speaking with Yennefer's voice, "had I known you'd just ramble into it, I'd never have left it with you."

He scoffed. "Please. I'm a poet, you know, talking is what I do."

"Funny," she retorted, "and I had heard you were a Viscount now."

"As a matter of fact, I've always been." There was a long pause between them. "How are you?" he asked after a while. "I heard you were injured."

"Oh, yeah, just go like a bull at the gates." He could practically hear the eyeroll.

"Yennefer?" he asked after she failed to respond.

"I'm alright now." Was her voice quivering? Surely not. "But being blind is a terrifying experience. As is almost losing my best friend."

"Triss Merigold?" he hazarded a guess.

"Yeah," she admitted. "She's alright now, too."

"I'm sorry, Yennefer," he said earnestly. "This war is too taxing already."

"Let's not talk about that, shall we? I- hold up a moment." There was indistinct mumbling in the background, before he heard her voice clearly again: "I'm back. Tell me what's new bard."

"Uhh," he said eloquently. "Am I interrupting something?"

"Nothing at all, don't worry about it. Triss can wait until we’re done. She knows I was waiting for you to finally find your balls and call me. So, bard, please tell me you're doing something fun."

“Depends.” 

“On what?”

“Your definition of fun.” He winced. "Well, I adopted a stray."

"Really?" She laughed. "I never took you for an animal person. What furry nasty creature managed to worm its way into your heart?"

"Not furry," he said quietly. "Not nasty either. A wolf. And a cub, too."

The silence that followed was long enough that he thought she'd left again. When she spoke again, he almost thought there was a quiver in her voice: "So, he found her? And they're with you?"

"Yes," he answered and leaned back against one of the heavy chests that surrounded him. "Turned up on my doorstep a month ago. Battered and broken, and _fuck_ Yen, we talked about this, but they looked like shit, and-"

"You couldn't resist," she finished his sentence.

"No."

"Oh, Jaskier..." Why was her voice soft? Why was she not laughing? Shit, it hadn't been supposed to go like that. "Want me to come to you? What's that backwater barony you call your home, Lettenhove?"

"It's a viscounty, thank you very much. And no. I've... I've got it under control."

She laughed weakly. "Do I even want to know what that entails?"

"It's better you don't, believe me." He hesitated for a moment. "I've seen to their safety," he promised. With a bit of luck, a court mage would know what that meant.

She did. "Shit, bard," Yennefer cursed. "What does your liege have to say about that?"

"Nothing much," he replied as casually as possible. "I'm marrying his step-sister on Belleteyn. You're invited, by the way."

A sarcastic snort echoed through the emptiness of the attic. "You're doing a shitty job of convincing me not to come over." Before he had any chance to protest, she kept on talking: "I won't, don't worry. I know how to respect another person's boundaries, unlike _some_ people."

That startled a laugh out of him. "He's learning to, believe me or not. Doesn't have much of another choice. It's hilarious, really."

He could almost imagine Yennefer's smile when she sighed and said: "Go on, then. Tell me about it."

And so, he did. Before he knew what was happening, he was talking. Rambling, really, no end in sight, like he hadn't done in months until his head swam with words and his stomach ached with laughter. It was good. He was well. And for a moment, that was all that mattered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I did ten hours of research just to write an oath of fealty for a fanfic, why do you ask? If anyone is interested, it is heavily inspired by three oaths off allegiance from the 8th century that date back to Charlemagne the Great: Duplex legationis edictum (Capit. I, Nr. 23 (789) c.18, p.63) and Capitularia missorum speciale (Nr. 34, p. lOl et seq.). Careful, it's in Latin.  
> And I know that I am a couple of centuries off by the setting of this whole thing but the later sources always speak of fealty and while Jaskier does give Geralt something in return, I couldn't find a document where the loan is "just" protection. They also omit the loyalty part quite frequently, so I had to revert back to much earlier sources.  
> If anyone is interested in what the absent Pankratz sister looks like, here's a picture of [Józefa](https://dhwty-writes.tumblr.com/post/632493442978725888/the-honourable-j%C3%B3zefa-pankratz-the-innocent-the#_=_).  
> Let me know what you think of this chapter (and Yennefer's surprise appearance. Yes, it surprised me, too.) in the comments or over on [tumblr](https://dhwty-writes.tumblr.com/)!  
> See you next week with Chapter 15 - A Broken Solitude, where one Lady Justyna of Kerton comes to Lettenhove!


	16. A Broken Solitude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Geralt is still wrestling with the implications of Jaskier's impending wedding, a new Pankratz sister comes to town. Surely, everything will be fine, right? Right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovelies, I am back with another chapter. I'm so glad that the last one was so well received - especially the oath and Yennefer. Maybe I'll be tempted to write a short prequel about Jaskier and Yennefer and how they got down the mountain? We'll see how it goes.  
> I also want it to be known that this chapter was filed as "Geralt vs. the Doublet" in my WIP's. You'll see why shortly.

Geralt couldn't fucking sleep. It wasn’t a new problem, he was well aware of it.  _ Maybe _ Jaskier even had a point when saying that worries were the cause for his temporary insomnia. The fact that he hadn’t so much as blinked since swearing himself to his not-friend was a pretty good clue. 

But it wasn’t just that or the quiet noise that drifted towards him from behind closed doors. It wasn't as simple as Jaskier's confession of his impending marriage either, or the godsawful anger that seared through his body whenever he thought of it, or even the glaringly obvious lack of music, which was a rather vicious thorn in his side.

Why wasn't there music? There should be music. A dirge, maybe, playing in the distance. A requiem, to mourn the death of the Viscount’s freedom, his happiness, his soul. One last song to bid farewell to Jaskier the Bard. It would have been a welcome relief to drown out the silence that rang far too loud. 

Geralt wasn’t stupid. He knew that was what it was. Jaskier had left him on that mountain, but he had never reached Lettenhove. Instead Julian Pankratz had risen from the dead, instead of staying in his grave where he fucking belonged. This marriage was nothing but another nail in the bard’s coffin. 

And if that wasn’t enough, each passing day revealed more of the nightmarish monster that slumbered beneath Lettenhove's pretty facade. Geralt suspected it only just began rearing its head. 'He shouldn't have to,' was the mantra of madness that kept Geralt sane that night. 'He shouldn't have to, he shouldn't have, he shouldn't.'

He remembered his first instinct when he saw Jaskier again: ‘A curse. It had to be a curse.’ What else could shut him up, after sixteen years of grunts and insults? What else could make him lay down his lute, stop his singing, drive him home, if all the horror of the Path hadn’t been able to? 

In a way, Geralt supposed, it was a curse. Not a proper one, of course, they were very different. But like one of those Jaskier used to sing about, pretty curses for pretty princesses that would be broken with a true love's kiss.

Only that this one wouldn't be. He wanted it to be, very much so. Maybe he even prayed for it to be, as stupid and futile as it was. A curse, he could do something about. A curse, he could break.

But this? This self-inflicted purgatory Jaskier was living in, dragging him deeper and deeper down the stairway of living hell with each passing day? There was nothing he could do about that.

Because Geralt had delivered him there and now Jaskier did not want to be rescued by him - if he wanted to be rescued at all. ‘He’s not being dragged,’ he thought glumly, ‘he follows willingly.’ He didn't have to choose this way, and yet he did because of... what exactly? Because a miserable witcher had showed up on his doorstep and their friendship was still important enough for him to sacrifice nothing short of his soul for that? Surely, that couldn't be it.

'It isn't,' he thought as he watched the sun rise on another day of misery. 'It's not for you that he's doing this, you heard him yourself.' And why would he be? He got a pretty young wife, a secure position and maybe even a new title out of it. Many people would do more for less. It shouldn't bother him as much as it did.

That was true for a lot of things. He had no right to be bothered by this marriage, nor did he have any right to resent the young lady that had overtaken his own place at his bard’s side. Nor should he be complaining about the very comfortable rooms he was residing in, that so clearly had belonged to someone much higher up the social food chain of Lettenhove than a jumped-up witcher. He tried not to think too much about who the noble in question had been. The answer to that question only made him uncomfortable.

He heard Jakub quietly knock on Jaskier's door to announce the looming arrival of one Lady Justyna of Kerton. The Viscount sighed along to the quiet whisper of silken sheets. "Alright then," he answered, "let the mummers' farce begin. Fetch me my motley, will you?" There was a joke in there, one that Geralt didn't quite get, too preoccupied with his own thoughts.

The news that yet another of Jaskier's sisters would join them in Lettenhove had left a sour taste in Geralt's mouth. He wasn't sure what to expect. But if Janina's delight, Józefa's indifference and Jaskier's jumpiness were anything to go by, he doubted it would be a pleasant experience for him.

'Here's to hoping it's better than the last visit for Jaskier,' he thought. The day of the oath still haunted him in his waking hours as well as his sleep, with the look of pure agony in Jaskier's eyes when he had told him of his betrothal out of his head. He just couldn't forget how the whole keep stank of onions and tears, mingling with Jaskier's smell that was as familiar to Geralt as his own. Or the way Jaskier's pinkie finger had trembled in his grasp, the way Jaskier's hands had closed around his, to pin him to the present with nothing more than a gentle squeeze. The way Jaskier had looked at him, a plethora of scented emotions swirling around them, cupping his cheek, caressing the outline of his cheekbone with his thumb-

"Fuck." Geralt sat up with a start and forced himself to get out of bed. He needed a bath. A cold one, preferably.

He cursed again when he heard Jaskier race down the stairs, and busying himself with... whatever he was doing in his study. So, a lick and a promise had to do and Geralt had to rely on his discipline to will the hot feeling coiling in his stomach away.

But even with his shortened ablutions he wasn't quite fast enough. He crouched before his chest in nothing but his breeches when his door burst open. "There you are, witche- ah," Jaskier stopped mid-sentence.

Since the Viscount couldn't see him, he allowed himself to smirk. "Told you to knock, my lord," he mumbled and pulled out a fresh shirt that he pulled over his head.

"Well, yes," Jaskier responded, stumbling only a little over his words, "and  _ I _ also told  _ you _ that I can go wherever it pleases me. My castle, remember?" 

“I remember.” He dug out a quilted doublet he didn’t know he owned and began fiddling with the buttons.

"Now, where was I?” Geralt could hear the finger fidget he did so often now. Another one of the jittery days, then. “Right, you need to hurry up. My sister's almost at the gate, or so I am told, and you  _ will _ greet her."

He rolled his eyes and rose to his feet, closing the front of the doublet in the process. "Of course, my ngh-" He turned and his words failed him.

Geralt would've been glad to say the first thing he noticed about Jaskier was his flushed face. Alas, that was not the case. 'He's wearing colour,' was the first thought that crossed his mind, closely followed by: 'Fuck.' After sixteen years of peacocking he should be used to this. After more than a month of mourning garb, though, it still came as a shock.

The Viscount de Lettenhove stood before him in all his glory. Of course, he was wearing the cursed red chemise again, that had drawn his eyes to Jaskier like a fucking target painted on his chest. 'Fuck.' Instead of black, Jaskier wore green, a frivolous velvet doublet embroidered with goldthread that  _ didn't have any buttons _ . 'Of course, it doesn't have any buttons.' He supposed the silk lacing fit Jaskier and his chronic immodesty, that had been suspiciously absent the past weeks. The thigh-high boots the matching breeches were tucked neatly into, made Geralt's mouth go dry. He counted it as a small blessing that at least the shirt was buttoned up properly.

"Are you quite done yet?" Jaskier huffed and that was when he first noticed the blush burning bright on his cheeks. Geralt liked to imagine that he himself didn't look quite as flustered. His hopes weren't very high, though. "I know you glare at every speck of colour as if it's attacking you, personally, but I am, quite frankly, not in the mood today. So, you'll have to get used to it again, no matter how bad of a look you think it to be."

"I don't," he heard himself say before his brain had the chance to catch up. "It's not as offensive as the black."

Jaskier opened and closed his mouth like a stranded fish. “Hmm,” he said after a while.

“Hmm,” Geralt agreed, too preoccupied with how the light caught on the intricate goldwork with Jaskier’s every move for a conversation. He shifted from one foot to the other, showcasing the glittering strings that tied doublet and breeches together and Geralt couldn’t tear his gaze away.

"Can we go now?" Jaskier interrupted his musings once again.

"Do you want me to greet your sister barefooted," he shot back, "my lord?"

He just sighed and leaned against the door frame, waving his hand in boredom. "Get a move on, then. We haven't got all day."

"Yes, my lord," Geralt mocked and put on the soft stockings Ana, Marin's mother and the head cook, had gifted him before pulling on his boots. It was weird to be dressed all in new clothes. It felt like they didn't really belong to him. But it was nice, too. Nice to be given things. And not to worry about holes in his socks.

"Ready?" Jaskier asked impatiently.

"Ready, my lord," he confirmed. Jaskier turned and bolted immediately.

He quickly caught up with him. It wasn’t hard. Jaskier was very distracted that morning, staring down the stairs at nothing at all. He didn’t even notice Geralt approaching. Instead he started fidgeting again. He'd done that before, Geralt knew, and he recognised it as a tell-tale sign for the bard to lunge for his lute and start plucking at the strings. Only that there was no lute in sight. Only that he wasn't a bard anymore.

The urge to grasp his pinkie finger again was nearly overwhelming. Or better yet, to hug him tight, that all the tension pent up in Jaskier's body could seep deep into Geralt's bones. He’d done that before, too. It had been uncomfortable at first and he had growled and snapped at him. Only when even that hadn’t discouraged Jaskier, he’d learned to accept it. To anticipate it even.

‘How ironic,’ he thought, ‘to think how I hated it then and how I wish for it now that I’m not allowed to anymore.’ He didn't even have to ask to know that. "Nervous, my lord?" he asked instead.

"No," Jaskier replied and fiddled with the signet ring on his finger, "why would I be? She's my sister, after all."

Geralt raised his eyebrows at that. 'You tell me, my lord.' "I had the impression that your relationship with some of your sisters is rather strenuous."

Jaskier gasped indignantly. "Now thats-" He faltered and winced. "- probably true.” He looked almost pained when he dragged his focus back to their way downwards and began walking again. "There won't be anything to fear from dearest Konwalia, though. She loves me."

'I've heard that one before,' he thought but couldn't find it in him to act annoyed. "Hmm," he answered.

Jaskier scoffed, not very impressed. "Go on, witcher. Speak your mind. I can hear you mocking me even so."

He smiled. Of course he could. "I was just reminiscing on all the times you said this in the past, my lord," he answered. "And how often it led to us spending the night out in the rain."

Jaskier laughed and pushed the door to the courtyard open. "Well, you're in luck, Geralt," he said and spun to hold it open for him. "The chances of that are minimal."

Geralt snorted and stepped out into the freezing morning. Next thing he knew, the Viscount was on the floor, writhing and yelling, and shoving at the stranger who had tackled him.

Geralt cursed. How had he not seen that coming? He was a witcher, for fuck's sake. Fuck, he had just sworn to Jaskier that he would keep him safe and now this: "Get off me!" Jaskier shouted and kicked his legs. "You're crushing me, you horrible, horrible person! And ruining my doublet besid- no, not the sides, I’m ticklish,  _ fuck _ \- godsdammit, Geralt-!"

He was on the attacker a heartbeat later, pulling her off his Viscount. "Oh, you dirty son of a whore, get your hands off me!" she screeched in turn and slapped at his wrists, not that it did her any good. "Unhand me, you brute, you swine, and let me punish my brother for his crimes!"

'Brother?' Geralt looked at Jaskier who was slowly getting to his feet and mercifully looked unharmed. Using the distraction in her favour, the woman stomped on his foot, which made him loosen his grip. She spun, kicked him in the balls and when he doubled over, she pressed a tiny dagger against his throat.

She stared at him defiantly. Geralt stared back. Blinked in confusion. He looked at Jaskier. Back at her face, an exact copy of Jaskier's features. The Viscount doubled over with laughter. "What?" Justyna of Kerton snarled and pressed the blade harder into his skin, almost hard enough to draw blood.

Jaskier slung an arm around her shoulders and kissed her on the cheek. "I missed you, Konwalia." He grinned and Justyna of Kerton grinned, too, and for a moment it was like seeing double.

It took his brain an embarrassingly long time to catch up with what was happening and to drop his hand. "Apologies, my lady," he mumbled, "I didn't realise who I was talking to."

"Obviously not." She turned up her nose at him, but didn't lower her dagger. "Who do you think you are, mangling me like that?"

Jaskier sighed and took a step back. "You know who he is," he answered and waved his hand. 

She narrowed her eyes, her gaze burning with icy fervor as she took him in. "Oh, I know who you are alright. You're the man who stole my brother from me.” Finally, she sheathed the blade,  _ the gods knew where _ , and extended her hand. “Well, I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Geralt of Rivia."

“The pleasure is mine, Lady-” Geralt bowed to kiss her hand, but Jaskier's sharp whisper stopped him, too quiet to be heard by any human: "Don't touch her rings." 

He halted, eyeing and sniffing the pretty jewels warily. He nearly hissed with disgust when the stink of several lethal poisons assaulted him. Hemlock, cyanide and lily-of-the-valley. “Konwalia,” he said, thoughtful.

Justyna scoffed. "You're no fun," she accused her brother, as she withdrew her hand.

Geralt straightened himself and quirked an eyebrow at Jaskier, who crossed his arms. "I won't let you kill my witcher."

"Please," she rolled her eyes. "He's a mutant. It wouldn't have killed him."

"I won't let you incapacitate my witcher either. I-"

Whatever he had wanted to say next, was quickly drowned out by a squeal: "Mother," a boy in dusty travel clothes called, "look at what Daria is doing!"

Daria, he supposed, was the girl in Ciri’s age balancing precariously on the railing of a trough to evade the grasping hands of a nursemaid. "What? You told me I’m so dirty, it'd be easier to dunk me in the horse trough!" Daria shouted defiantly. "I'm dunkin' myself!"

"Gods have mercy on the parents of clever children," Justyna groaned and rolled her eyes. "Not before you greet your uncle, you won't!” She shouted. “You two come over here right this instant!"

The boy obeyed right away, scurrying over to hide behind Justyna's skirts. But the girl needed more begging by her nurse and shouts by her mother before finally running over. Not before giving one of the two ponies in front of the stable, a pat on the neck, Geralt noted. Justyna’s three guards standing with the five horses watched the scene with thinly veiled humour. No other nobles, though.

"Your husband is not joining us?" Jaskier voiced the question that occupied Geralt's mind.

Justyna sighed exaggeratedly. "Alas, I fear he is still in Goldfurt," she answered cheerily, "where he is annoying our beloved brother-in-law terribly and teaching my eldest all his horrible fibs."

Jaskier looked startled for a moment, before he continued: "And he can stay there as long as he likes, so long as he doesn't come here."

Justyna smiled and mussed her son's hair. "Indeed, he can."

"Here's to hoping  _ my _ husband dearest doesn't grow tired of yours," Janina shouted from across the courtyard and knocked on the wooden door. "You look good, Justynka. I am glad to have another sensible person in these halls."

Józefa and Ciri were with them, too, and they looked upset at that. But Justyna was quick to answer before the youngest Pankratz sister could protest: "As if I've been sensible for one day of my life," she sighed and opened her arms to stiffly hug Janina and Józefa after. "Ah, there you are." She smiled fondly as Daria slid her small hand into hers. "Go on now, be nice guests and greet Lord Lettenhove."

The two children looked up at her with wide eyes, then glanced over to Jaskier. 'The same blue eyes all Pankratzes share,' he noted. The Viscount smiled and took a step forward while Geralt backed up a little, trying to look as unintimidating as possible. 

Jaskier's niece let go of her mother's hand and his nephew came forth from behind her skirts to greet him with a nice bow. "Thank you for allowing us to stay at your keep, my lord," Daria said and if he strained his ears, Geralt could hear Jaskier's heart skip a beat. "It is a pleasure to meet you."

"Oh, no, d- madam," Jaskier said. He took her hand, to raise her from her curtsy and kissed it gently. "The pleasure is all mine. I hope you may forgive the mishap that is failing to make your acquaintance until now."

She pursed her lips, obviously straying from the carefully rehearsed protocol when she said: "I might. If you're a nice uncle, Lord Lettenhove."

He laughed and reached out to mess up her already tousled hair. "I will have to make an effort, then, little Lady Daria." She grinned widely, and Jaskier turned to his nephew: "What about you, sir? I'm afraid I didn't catch your name."

The boy straightened himself, but his eyes continued darting around, not daring to settle on his uncle. "Julian of Kerton, my lord, if it pleases you," he said far too quickly.

Out of the corner of his eye, Geralt saw Jaskier's mouth forming a silent 'Oh'. Honeyed happiness trickled through the air, as he carefully looked over to Justyna. She smiled and nodded.

Jaskier gulped and dropped to one knee before the boy. "Now that will lead to some confusion, huh?" He laughed nervously.

Justyna clicked her tongue. "How were we supposed to know either of you would grace the halls of Lettenhove? Go on, Julek, and let your namesake give you the hug he owes you."

If Jaskier looked nervous, then Julian did so doubly so, glancing back to his mother thrice, before finally wrapping his small arms around the Viscount's neck. He startled just like Geralt, when Jaskier sniffled quietly. "I'm sorry," he whispered, hugging his nephew tighter. "I'm sorry I'm late."

There was a simultaneous scoff from all three of his sisters and some muttering about 'idiotic men who didn't know how to apologise' or something of that kind. Truth be told, Geralt stopped listening as soon as Jaskier introduced his 'Cousin Fiona', and once more related the unlikely tale of their reunion. 

Absentmindedly he wondered, when it would be acceptable for him to make a quiet escape. Three siblings had set him on edge already. Four was definitely nothing he was equipped to deal with.

Just when he was about to leave, there was a tug on his sleeve. When he turned, he saw Daria looking up at him with curious eyes. "Who are  _ you _ ?" she demanded to know.

"Geralt of Rivia," he responded with a nod of his head. "At your service, madam."

"Are you the witcher mother talked about?" she continued. "The one that stole Uncle Julian? Did you really steal him? Why did you return him?"

"I... am?" he answered cautiously, not entirely sure how to address any of those questions.

He was still trying to figure out how to answer them when she already babbled on: "Why d'you look so weird? What happened to your eyes? Why's your hair all white? Only old people have white hair, but you don't look old. Why don't you look old? Can I have white hair, too? It looks wicked."

"No," he growled, but she didn't even flinch.

"You can't tell me no!" she exclaimed. "You said you're at my service, so you can't deny me!" 

“Aren’t you scared of me?” he asked with raised eyebrows.

She stood with her hands on her hips. “I am Lady Daria of Kerton,” she informed him, “and you have no right to frighten me.”

He had to repress a quiet chuckle. 'Oh, you're Jaskier's niece alright,' he thought. 'No fucking sense of self-preservation.' "Is that so? Didn't your mother tell you, witchers steal children and turn them into monsters?"

Her eyes grew even wider. "You can do that? Can I be a witcher, too? Are there girl witchers? Can you steal me, so that I don't have to marry someone? Mother says, that's what you did to Uncle Julian. I'd rather be a white-haired witcher than marry someone. And I already know how to swing a sword!" She gasped and quickly clasped her hands over her mouth when she realised what she'd said. "Oh  _ bother _ ," she mumbled, "I wasn't supposed to say that."

He tilted his head, intrigued. "Why not?"

"Father says, a lady mustn't bear arms."

"Hm," he answered. 'Arsehole,' he thought. "And what does your mother say?"

"That a true lady knows where to hide arms from idiot men's view." Her eyes gleamed mischievously. "Did you know that I can hide ten blades on my person without father noticing?"

That made him chuckle. "I did not, madam. Do you think it wise to entrust that information with an idiot man?"

She frowned and cocked her head. "No. But you don't look like an idiot."

"I'm very glad to hear that."

Daria crossed her arms. "Will you train me now?"

Geralt shrugged. "I fear that is not up to me to decide. You'll have to ask your mother about it. And your lord uncle. It is his service I am sworn to."

"Very well," she answered and tossed her braided hair over her shoulder. "I will ask."

He already feared she was about to ask right then and there, when Justyna of Kerton came to his rescue: "Daria," she called, "time for your dunking. In a bathtub."

"Later," she acquiesced. "I will ask later." She and her brother quickly vanished between four chattering Pankratz siblings, leaving him alone with Ciri.

His child surprise beamed at him. “Can we train? Please?”

As if he needed any encouragement. “Meet you back here in half an hour,” he told her and went to change and get his own training sort.

“Daria is fun,” Ciri announced as soon as she came barrelling into the courtyard again. “She said you’ll train her, too. Is that true?”

He glared at her. Fucking great. “Maybe.” His voice sounded far too soft for his liking. “You’d like that?”

“Oh, I’d love that!” Ciri spun in a circle and giggled childishly. “I’d love to have a friend.”

“Hmm,” he grunted. “You’re not here to make friends. You’re here to train. Start with the drills.”

She sighed and took her basic stance, moving effortlessly through the footwork Geralt srilled into her. “Why can’t I do both?”

“Making friends gets you talking,” he recited Vesemir’s words, “talking gets you sloppy.” He nudged her food with his sword, adjusting the position slightly. “Sloppy gets you killed.”

“But Geralt!”

“First rule of training?”

“Listen and do as you’re told,” she mumbled.

“Right. D’you need your mouth for that?”

“No.”

“Then shut it and get moving.” She pulled a grimace he knew he should reprimand her for. Somehow, he couldn’t. “Alright, I’ll do it with you.” That always seemed to cheer her up. Together they moved through the basic drills until they were rudely interrupted by Justyna of Kerton.

“Continue,” he told Ciri and walked over to Jaskier’s sister, who was eying his student with interest.

"So, it is true," she said.

"My lady?" he prompted.

"Daria told me you were willing to train her."

Geralt sighed. "Would you believe me if I said those were not my words?"

She laughed and shook her head. "I'd be disappointed if they were. She's a good liar."

"You sound proud," he said as disapprovingly as he could.

"Lying is a very useful talent for people like us," she answered secretively.

"Nobles?"

"Noblewomen," Justyna clarified.

"Hm," he answered. "Lower, cublet," he shouted to Ciri, who thought she could cheat by not making proper use of her knees, "I want to see a right angle!"

"So, will you?" Justyna inquired.

"Will I do what?" he asked irritated. Using a whole lot of words without saying anything at all seemed to run in the family.

"Train my children."

"The boy, too?"

"Unfortunately, yes." Justyna wrinkled her nose in disgust. "I fear the same people that forbid my daughter from picking up arms, also dictate that my son must. Despite their contrary natures."

He scoffed. "Your daughter can store ten blades on her person without anyone noticing.”

“So she can,” she agreed. "And one day, that’s what will bring people to listen to her. If she knows how to use them. So?"

He looked down at her and raised an eyebrow. "As the intelligent woman I know you to be, you should know that I hold no power here. Ask your brother."

"You are just like him, absolutely no fun," she pouted.

"I'm sure your sisters will be happy to agree. If you excuse me now? I have a job to do." Without looking back, he walked over to Ciri to correct her posture. She was cheating again. "You know you're doing yourself no favour with that, hm?" he said as he tapped her feet to get them wider apart.

She lost her balance with flailing arms and his hand shot out to steady her. "But it hurts," she complained.

' _ The trials hurt, pup, _ ' he remembered Vesemir's response to those words, ' _ this is nothing. _ ' But when he opened his mouth, the words couldn't seem to come out.

'It's a stupid phrase,' he thought. 'There are no trials anymore.' And even if there were, nothing in this world and the next could bring him to subject her to their cruelty. He tried not to think about how Vesemir had been able to do it to all of his pups.

"It will stop hurting," he told her instead.

"When?"

"When you get used to it." He poked her in the side and she giggled. "Once we get some muscles on you, you'll hardly notice it. From the top."

Both of them were lost in the almost meditative trance that came with drills, when suddenly a loud voice cut through the silence: "Jaskier!" Justyna called.

Geralt groaned quietly. 'Gods preserve us.'

The Viscount was dressed in a green riding cloak and heading to the stables, where Marin was already waiting for him. Apparently, they were about to restart their daily rides. "What?" he asked, mildly irritated.

"Nothing at all, brother. I just wondered whether or not your witcher might be persuaded to train Daria and Julek, too?"

"Sure," he replied with a smile, as he mounted his horse, "why not? Are you alright with that, Geralt?"

He shrugged and looked down at Ciri. "Fine," he replied begrudgingly. "Might be nice for Fiona to have some company."

"It's settled, then. Marin?"

"Ready, my lord." The Captain of the Guard was already in his saddle, his horse prancing a little.

"Where are you going?" Justyna asked.

Jaskier shot Geralt a quick glance. "I can't tell you," he replied cautiously. 'Great,' he thought. He hated the damned secrecy. "But you are welcome to come with me."

"And I would love to! Wiktor, my horse."

Geralt sighed and turned back to a grinning Ciri. "What?" he grumbled.

"You're staring," she informed him.

"So?" He knew he was fucking staring. How was he supposed not to stare?

Her grin grew even wider. "So, nothing. I really like Jaskier's new doublet. Don't you?"

"You little menace," he growled, "you're doing this on purpose."

"Maybe," she drawled.

"If you've got time to pull my leg you're not training hard enough. Again!"

It was the early afternoon, when Jaskier and Justyna returned from their ride — without Marin, though. He could hear them from a thousand yards away, talking animatedly about everything and nothing at all.

"Again," he grunted at Ciri, who was drenched in sweat, her dark-dyed hair clinging to her forehead. She groaned loudly but did what she was told all the same.

Geralt didn't really pay attention, much too preoccupied to listen to Jaskier and his sister. "As the good friend that I am I told him to talk to me," he related as they rode through the gates. "A futile attempt, I'm well aware. I hadn't been able to get him to talk for a full decade, but my inebriated past-self still believed in miracles. And then — can you imagine? — he asked whether or not I had sung to her before she left!"

She snorted. "Unbelievable."

"I know!" He hopped from his saddle and handed his reins to Wiktor. "But that's not even the worst part. He told me, my singing was like, and I quote, " _ ordering a pie and finding it has no filling _ "."

"The audacity!" Justyna gasped and clutched at her chest. “Your witcher should really learn to respect his fellows.” As if he wasn’t fucking standing right _ there _ .

He didn't catch Jaskier’s response, for there was a sharp pain in his shin that demanded his attention. He looked down to where Ciri had hit him with her wooden sword. "Ow."

"You're not even paying attention!" she complained.

"Not true. I was paying attention. I chose to ignore that blow."

"Lying is a sin and a crime," she told him.

"Good that I heed neither king nor god, then. Again."

Ciri groaned again but did as she was told. Geralt's attention was already elsewhere again, as Jaskier and Justyna laughed loudly and Geralt couldn’t help but scowl. He should be thankful, he figured. Thankful that Jaskier was happy again. Why did it make him even sadder?

“Are you alright?” Ciri asked quietly, as more snippets of conversation drifted over to them.

“Deliver our dinner up to my study, if you will,” Jaskier told some servant. “And see to it that my liquor cabinet is restocked. There are some celebrations in order."

'Oh, fuck no,' he thought and paled. Geralt was well aware of Jaskier's usual manner of celebration. They began with a tankard of ale and bawdy songs. A few hours of prancing and at least one pint stolen from Geralt in tiny sips later, he would stop singing and start drinking vodka. One drink had him chattering, four and he was draped over Geralt, and after that he took on the strenuous task of spilling every secret he knew, to anyone who would listen. The end normally came with sunrise, at least one vomit spell and Jaskier in some stranger’s bed. The handle of his sword creaked dangerously in his clenched fist.

“I am,” he told Ciri, forcing himself to sound as calm as possible. “That’s enough for today. Go and get changed.”

She hesitated. “What about you?” 

“I’ll stay for just a bit longer. Go now.” She gnawed on her lip and he had to look away. He couldn’t bear the pity in her eyes. After a quick squeeze of his hand, she took off all the same.

When he looked up, the courtyard was deserted and it felt as if Geralt was suffocating. "Fuck," he grunted and angrily kicked the horse trough. He really needed to get a grip. 

He heard an appreciative whistle behind him and spun to see Marin stand in the gate, leading his horse by the reins. "Careful now, Geralt," he said with a soft smile, "or you'll scare his lordship's servants again."

"His lordship and his servants can go kiss my arse," he sneered, half hoping to smell a whiff of vinegar at that. But of course, he didn't.

Instead, he laughed, and the amused smell of young wine laced with honeyed happiness filled the air. Without really wanting to, Geralt took a deep breath. It was  _ intoxicating _ . "I bet you'd like that," he said with a wink and handed his reins over to a stableboy.

"Piss off, Marin," he said exasperated, “I don’t want company.” He was not in the mood for any of his prying questions and clever words.

Unfortunately, that didn't discourage him in the slightest. "Now, now, don't say that too loudly. Else someone's going to believe it."

"I care  _ fuck _ all about someone's beliefs."

"Stop taking the piss out of yourself," he said unimpressed, "and start telling me what's gotten you so riled up."

Geralt grunted and crossed his arms. He had no intentions of telling him anything. Somehow, the words still tumbled out of his mouth when Marin smiled expectantly: "I can't fucking sleep."

"Oh?" The captain of the guard leaned against the wall. "Lord Julian's finally warmed up to you, then?"

He scoffed. "Still hoping to win the bet?"

"Hm," he said and smiled. "That too, yeah. So, how's the lordly bed?"

"Fuck if I know. Haven't even really talked to him in two days." And with Justyna's arrival he doubted that would change anytime soon. He sighed and drew the sword from his belt. "Drop it. Spar with me instead?" He had offered it, after all. More than once.

He pushed off the wall and went to pick up another wooden sword. "Gladly. I was promised to get my arse kicked, after all.”

Geralt snorted and that’s all the warning he gave before charging. “You seem awfully unbothered by that.”

He laughed and blocked the blow. “My fortieth winter came and went some years ago. I’d be awfully offended if I so much as stand a chance against you.” He grinned and almost landed a strike. “Don’t you dare go easy on me, witcher.”

“Not any easier than I would go on any other human,” he promised and knocked his sword away, pointing his own blade at his throat. “Yield.”

“Again,” Marin demanded with an eager gleam in his eyes. Geralt was happy to oblige and they resumed their positions. After a few rounds, they fell into an easy routine. It was less of a fight and more of a dance. 

“Oh, Melitele’s tits, I missed this,” Marin sighed as their swords clashed again. “Not as good as sinking my sword into some Nilfgaardian’s, but it gets my blood singing all the same.”

Geralt snorted as he sidestepped and dealt a blow to Marin’s backside for good measure. “Are you always this chatty during swordplay?”

“Usually,” he admitted and grinned. “You could try to gag me, though I make no promises that’ll work. I like to know my foe before sheathing my blade in them.”

He raised a suspicious eyebrow. “And I suppose you know all about fighting while gagged.”

“Certainly. I was captured during the war, you know? Had to, uh, fight my way out.”

“Hmm,” he answered. “Again?”

“Definitely.” He raised his sword again. “Wouldn’t want our tilt to end so soon.” Geralt blocked his blows easily, relishing in the silence safe for the clank of their wooden swords.

“Speaking of getting to know my foe…”

“I’m not talking about my past,” he grunted.

“And I wouldn’t ask you to,” Marin said and grazed his thigh with the tip of his sword. “So, about this sleeplessness.”

“Marin,” he grunted annoyed and felt the control on his strength slip. He hit him square in the chest and the human stumbled a few paces back.

To Geralt’s neverending confusion, he laughed. "Come on, witcher, is that all you got? I thought you were angry!"

'I am,' he thought, 'but-' "I don't want to hurt you." His anger  _ always  _ hurt people.

"Don't worry about me, I can take it." He blocked another blow, hard enough that it was bound to hurt. "That's better," he said with a wide grin. "Let your blade talk if you can't."

For the second time that day he answered despite his better judgement: "It's just fucking shit," he grunted and ducked away under a mean blow. "I know I fucked up, but it's like he's a different person. Sixteen years, dammit, and now nothing."

Marin shook his head and used the moment to catch his breath. "I don't think you understand how things here work. Maybe you were friends with him some time ago. Maybe you brought Lady Fiona here. But they're nobility. They're different from you and me."

"Bullshit."

"What happens when they catch you stealing? When you chop someone's head off? When you're a traitor?"

He grunted and lunged forward again.

"I know. But when they steal, it's taxes. When they kill, it's justice. When they act like the backstabbing cunts they are, it's politics. Like it or not, but as long as you're in Lettenhove, you're at his mercy. No matter how friendly he might act with us, we are not the same. He could always decide to fire us or banish us, or execute us. Nothing you can do about it."

"That's stupid. There must be something."

He shrugged and parried. "Tell me when you find out. In the meantime, enjoy what you can, shut up about what you can't. You're lucky. You're free to go, at least. For the rest of us, there's nothing out there."

Geralt snorted. "Right now, I can't."

"Why, because you're his lordship's guest? He won't force you to stay."

"Hmm." He drove him farther back. "You sure about that? That bloody oath seemed pretty fucking important to him."

Marin tripped over thin air and landed on his butt with a grunt. "Ex- excuse me?" he stammered.

"Hm?" Geralt said and pointed his sword at his throat. "Yield."

"Yeah, sure." He pushed the blade out of the way and accepted Geralt's hand to get back to his feet. "I just thought you said you're sworn to his lordship now."

"I did."

"Well...," he said slowly, "that changes quite a bit."

"It does." He knew damn well that it did. 

Marin didn’t get the hint to shut up: "He certainly won't fuck you now."

Geralt made a point of slowly sheathing his sword and sat down against the wall to take a large gulp from his waterskin. "Hm." 

"Is that what's been keeping you awake?" Marin settled down next to him and accepted the waterskin. "The oath, I mean." He hesitated for a moment. "I'm sure he'd release you from it, if you asked. He's got a good heart, you know, and-"

Geralt closed his eyes and let his head thump back against the wall. "I know," he interrupted him harshly. “Too soft.” Was his heart supposed to hurt like that?

"Right, I'm so-"

"I can't sleep because I can't stop  _ hearing _ him," he gritted out, not knowing why.

"Your ears're that good, huh?"

He raised his eyebrows in amusement. "I can hear your mother scolding the kitchen boys from here."

"Really?" Marin whistled through his teeth. "What's she saying?"

"Nothing child appropriate."

That made him laugh. After a moment he said: "So you're frustrated, huh?"

Geralt grunted. "Nothing that should concern you."

"Really? 'Cause I've heard I've got a knack for stress relief. I’d love to take the edge off."

Turning to him he frowned. “Hm,” he hummed quietly as he took in his appearance. The sweaty hair, the flushed cheeks, the lewd grin. ‘Ah.’ The dark eyes that gleamed mischievously. And then the wave of spicy-sweet cinnamon, he inhaled greedily. ‘Fuck.’

For a moment, he thought of Jaskier and his heart ached. He'd missed that smell, omnipresent as it had been on his bard. And now it was back, only all wrong.

It was stupid, he knew. Marin wasn’t  _ anything _ like Jaskier. Silver strands streaked his hair and crow’s feet adorned his eyes. His hands were rough, his stomach soft and his smile kind. 'This isn't right,' the voice of reason told him. 

‘ _ Like rubbing salve on a tumour. _ ’ He frowned. It seemed like a lifetime ago when Jaskier had told him that. He had been right then, he’d probably be right now. 

But Jaskier wasn't here. He was in his rooms, about to get drunk with the sister he had evidently missed and never mentioned before. 'He'll be fine,' Geralt told himself. 'He'll be happy.' 

Marin's smile faltered. "Look-" he began, but Geralt gave him no chance to finish that sentence. ‘Fuck it,’ he thought and hauled him close by the collar of his shirt.

Their lips crashed together in a bruising kiss. His lips were rough, too, but so were Geralt’s and he’d never cared much about that. It also dispelled any illusion that he was kissing anyone but Marin, which was just as well. 

Marin pulled back slightly to catch his breath. "Oh, good," he said, smirking, "I already thought you weren't interested. "

“Hmm,” Geralt answered and leaned back against the wall, “didn’t know it was an option.”

He threw his head back and laughed, exposing his throat while he did so. Geralt didn’t even fight the urge to lean in and kiss below his jaw. Judging by Marin’s groan and the hands that tangled in his shirt, it wasn’t unwelcome. “I didn’t know you suffered from blindness, witcher. Aren’t your eyes supposed to be keener than any man’s?”

“I’m seeing you just fine,” he chuckled. “Just wasn’t listening.”

“As long as you like what you see.” He craned his head again, obviously waiting for Geralt to make another move. He kissed him again, just because he could. 

This time, a stifled groan from the battlements broke them apart. “Captain!” Borys called, a large smile plastered on his face and that of half a dozen other guards. “Have pity on our eyes and get yourself a room!”

Marin huffed and smiled enticingly. “Alright, alright.” He got to his feet and extended his hand. “What d’you say, Geralt? I’d fancy a night in silken sheets and eiderdown.”

He frowned, unwittingly thinking of Jaskier. Geralt gave him three hours to be drunk as a sailor. He’d be telling stories, humming and laughing, maybe even singing. All of that in his study, where Geralt would hear every word. “No,” he decided firmly and let him pull him to his feet. He couldn’t bear it, neither with Marin nor alone.

So, he grabbed him by the waist and pulled him close. “I don’t care for silk and featherbeds,” he announced and kissed him again. “But I like the sound of a wall between us and those pricks. Lead the way, Captain.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, uh, that's that? Oops?  
> Please know that PersonyPepper is 100% responsible for the MarinxGeralt thing, I hadn't even thought of it until they suggested it. I also sadly have to announce that they will be unable to continue betaing this fic due to personal reasons. So, I guess if any of you is interested in doing that going forward, shoot me a message on [tumblr](https://dhwty-writes.tumblr.com/)?  
> Unfortunately, I come bearing more bad news: this is the last pre-written chapter and I am experiencing a minor wave of writer's block atm, so the next one might take a while. I apologise in advance.  
>  _Now_ you can come yell at me in the comments.


	17. A Sister's Solace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier has a hangover and wakes up to unexpected news concerning the relationship status of his witcher. Strangely, this isn't the worst thing to transpire that miserable day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *comes running in panting with scattered notes everywhere* Hi guys, I made it on time! Last chapter before this term hits me with full force, lol  
> First and foremost I have to thank [@spiffingtea](https://spiffingtea.tumblr.com/) for that, who kindly agreed to continue betaing this fic (go chech out her writing, there's one witcher fic and I love it).  
> Second of all, thanks for all your comments! That ending caused quite an uproar, huh? For all those of you wondering how Jaskier will react, here's the answer:

"And you're certain, Jakub?"

"Quite, my lord," the servant answered with a guarded expression. "The witcher hasn't returned to his chambers tonight."

"Fine," Jaskier said and took a moment to close his eyes and take a deep breath, leaning heavily against the wall. He felt nauseous all of the sudden, and not because of the overindulgence in alcohol from the previous night.

"Are you alright, my lord?" Jakub asked, obviously very unimpressed with the sudden fainting spell his master was experiencing. His servants held seldom any pity for him when they knew him to be the cause for his self-inflicted suffering. 

"Just fine," he lied. No, he was angry, and he was hurt, and he wanted to blame someone for it but _couldn't_. Because there was absolutely no reason for him to feel the familiar burn of jealousy in his chest.

He had never asked Geralt to keep his hands to himself, with the exception of his sisters. Besides, it was a completely unreasonable thing to do. He had his needs, after all. Jaskier should be used to it by now. Slowly, he straightened himself. "And, ah- whose bed did you say it was, that he managed to charm his way into?"

"Marin, my lord. Though I believe it was our esteemed Captain of the Guard that did the charming."

Jaskier grimaced. 'Fucking great.' The only upside to this was that with Marin at least he could be certain that his Captain would refuse if he was averse to the attention. Which, somehow, only made it worse.

"They're the talk of the castle," Jakub kept reporting as he handed him his sword belt, "and the bets have already been settled-"

"Jakub?" Jaskier interrupted him.

"Yes, my lord?"

"Please drop the topic."

"Certainly, my lord. Is there anything else?"

"You tell me. What obligations do I have to try and avoid today?" 

"Nothing but the breakfast with your family, my lord. The staff will begin the preparations for your departure to Goldfurt. And on the far end of the town, one of the tenant’s roofs caved in."

"See it repaired, if you'd be so good. Oh, and also check on the construction progress, if you will? I don't feel in the mood for riding today."

He didn't feel in the mood for anything today, to be fair. With his truly spectacular hangover it was a miracle that he had dragged himself out of bed at all. The news Jakub had just dutifully delivered, made the urge to crawl back inside nearly irresistible.

After sixteen years on the path he had experience in walking a headache off, at least. Geralt never took pity on him when he had indulged the liquors a bit too much and neither did his station. ' _Your fault if you get drunk_ ,' he remembered Geralt's gravelly voice and winced. This wasn't going to get any easier.

He could hear the clattering of cutlery already when he stepped out of the stairwell into the hallway. 'Great,' he thought, 'now I have to suffer Janina's judgemental glances as well.' As if the smell of food, chatter of three children, and a freshly broken heart weren't enough to stomach before noon after a bender.

A servant hurried to get the door for him. Immediately his senses were assaulted by a plethora of smells and sights and sounds, so many it was nearly overwhelming. Jaskier suppressed a quiet groan. He nodded along with the greetings as he contemplated the viability of at least ordering the curtains shut, so he wouldn't have to deal with sunlight, too.

Before his pondering could be considered even slightly conclusive, he was victim to a different kind of assault. "Uncle Julian!" Daria exclaimed and leapt from her seat. She barrelled into him at full force, nearly knocking them both over.

He regained his precarious balance and heard two simultaneous gasps from the table, rapidly followed by an appalled: "Lady Daria!"

"Good morning, dear," he said and forced himself to smile. "I take you had a good night's rest?"

She nodded eagerly and he would have loved to continue their conversation. Alas, his attention was diverted by the sound of a chair scraping over his parquet and the resolute click of bootheels. "I am so sorry, your Lordship," Miss Nina, the nettlesome nursemaid, said and curtsied as she tried to pry her charge away from him. "Rest assured that such misbehaviour will neither be tolerated nor repeated."

"Fear not, madam," he said calmly and petted Daria's hair, not missing how she stuck out her tongue, "for I assure you that not only do I tolerate this 'misbehaviour', I encourage it even."

She opened her mouth as if she wanted to protest before remembering who she was talking to and quickly returning to the table — which was decidedly lacking some of his guests, now that he thought about it. Janina and Józefa were present, as were Ciri and Julek, and he noticed with delight that Justyna's old chair had been placed at her rightful place. It was empty, though, as was Geralt's. 

He wrinkled his nose, about to comment on it, when Janina got the drop on him, clicking her tongue in disapproval. "She's ten years old, my lord," she said in that soft condescending voice of hers that betrayed her insincerity, "it does not befit a lady to succumb to emotional whims in public."

"Precisely, Lady Goldfurt," he teased her, "ten years in which I did not have the chance to spoil the children who share my blood and name rotten." He shot a quick glance to Ciri, who was too engrossed in the excited ramblings of little Julek to notice. "And though it does not befit a lord either, you cannot stop me from succumbing to them."

She huffed but he caught the fond smile on her face, nevertheless. 'You can't hide from me, Janina,' he thought triumphantly.

"It appears we are missing a few of our guests. Pray tell, dear one, where's your mother?" he asked as he messed up Julek's hair while walking to his own chair.

The boy flinched at his touch and just stared at him. He was evidently angry at him for interrupting his conversation.

'Curious,' he thought, but he hadn't enough time to consider it further, because Daria started talking loudly again: "She's ill. She said she wouldn't get up all day, which is a sin, Miss Nina told me so, and that a lady mustn't indulge in laziness. But if mother's a lady, and if she's lazy today, does that mean I can be, too?"

Jaskier regarded Miss Nina with a quizzical gaze, wondering why on earth Justyna had hired such a dour and stern woman. Coming off her own experiences with nursemaids, tutors, and governesses, he would have thought her inclined to a more lenient hand. 

“Uncle Julian?” his niece demanded his attention again.

"Well, I suppose you could be," he answered slowly as servants filled his plate with food he wouldn't eat, "but I assure you, your mother won't be lazy the _whole_ day." Talking to children was as worse a minefield as any politician.

“But mother _said_ -” she protested, and he quickly raised his hand to interrupt her.

“No, she won’t,'” he said exasperated, much too tired to deal with this whirlwind. “I'll see to it personally.” If he had to be out of bed, Justyna had to suffer with him. It hadn't been him who had cracked open that fourth bottle of wine, after all. "Also, if you're lazy you won't be able to train your swordsmanship. I was under the impression you were looking forward to them."

She gasped and nodded eagerly. "I am, I am."

"Good. Then eat up, dear one. You shall start with them today."

Józefa cleared her throat and speared a piece of bacon onto her fork. "If her teacher has the grace to show up," she remarked with a secretive smile, and plopped the food into her mouth.

He furrowed his brow and decided to try the food after all. That way at least he could blame the bile in his mouth on something else than his sore ego. ‘Not that I have any reason to feel like this,’ he reminded himself.

He had almost gotten through a slice of bread when the doors burst open and Geralt stumbled in, still closing the uppermost buttons of the crumpled doublet he'd worn the day before. Silence fell over the room as all eyes turned to him. He looked up from what he was doing and froze. Jaskier imagined he even winced when he saw him, wearing saffron yellow and not even blinking as he raised his chin a little. "My lord," Geralt broke the silence.

Jaskier took his time before he answered, his eyes still raking over his rather dishevelled appearance. Hair unkempt, sleeves uncuffed and the breeches haphazardly tucked into his boots, Geralt was the very image of what he'd liked to jokingly, affectionately even, call 'harlotry'. Fuck, there was even a line of fading love bites disappearing into his collar. 

"Witcher,” he answered icily.

This time he did flinch, Jaskier was sure of it. The Viscount didn't care for it, nor did he for the sheepish look on his witcher’s face when he answered: "Please forgive my tardiness. It won't happen again."

“Don’t promise me something you cannot keep,” he whispered, just loud enough for Geralt to hear. He gave himself time to see the witcher tense up before he sighed exaggeratedly. "I fear you must be forgiven. After all, I can hardly fault you for a sin I have committed myself. Now. Shall we eat?"

Geralt stared at him unblinkingly and Jaskier could see the cogs turning in his head. His eyes flickered away from him to Janina and the empty seat next to her that was rather obviously not his. If the nursemaid and two children on its right were not enough of an indicator, the lilies of the valley that decorated it certainly were. His own chair had been transferred to the other side of Józefa and he moved slowly towards it, all muscles tensed. Only when he sat down and began eating in silence, the conversation started up again.

Jaskier tried to stomach at least a bit of the food - he knew it would help him - and drank an entire pitcher of water during breakfast while he entertained all three of his young guests with tales from his youth; pointedly leaving out any details of the particularly vicious pranks in hopes that would help circumvent a repetition.

The whole time he could feel Geralt’s stare burning on his skin, tracking the reflections of the velvet with his every movement as if he tried to scorch the offending garments off his skin. He made a point to ignore him. The shock of the revelation that the witcher liked the bright tones of his clothes still sat deep in his bones, and he wasn't quite ready to process the implications of that confession, yet. Besides, the very same day the witcher had gone and slept with Marin.

Janina was the first to leave, claiming that Jakub had asked her to oversee the repairs of the tenant’s roof. And while she certainly wouldn’t be of any help, the peasants delighted in seeing their lords’ and ladies’ faces from time to time. He was only too glad to let her relieve him of that responsibility. 

The children were herded off next, Miss Nina insisting they should change out of their finery for Sir Geralt to teach them. Only Józefa remained, stubbornly trying to incite a conversation with Jaskier, who kept glaring at Geralt just as intently as the witcher. He needed all of his concentration to dodge his gaze.

“-don’t you think, Julek?”

“Hm,” he answered.

"Oh, I see.” She smiled and pushed her chair back. “Good day to you, then, brother."

With that she was gone, leaving him alone with his witcher. The silence stretched on and on and on, as they both stared at each other while trying to pretend not to. He wondered how long it would take this time for Geralt to crack. It had become a fun little game in the past few weeks, seeing how long he could tease the witcher with silence before he just couldn’t take it anymore. He was determined to find out how far he could take it for Geralt to admit he missed his chatter. If only it hadn’t left such a bitter taste in his mouth just now. 

The door cracked open and Marta peeked her head through. She paled as she saw them sitting there. “Oh, Melitele have mercy,” he could hear her say faintly. “Please forgive me.” 

The door clicked shut again and the interruption was finally enough for Jaskier to rise to speak; "You know, you could at least have gotten changed, witcher. This is no way to greet polite company."

Geralt shot him a look of pure contempt, but said nothing at all. Jaskier wished he would, for he could imagine a plethora of barbed comments he would've gotten as an answer so very long ago. With his never-ending string of dalliances, he had heard hundreds of them. 

"Maybe I should be offended,” he said coolly, “that after welcoming you in my home and offering you my protection, you disrespect my sister and her children in such a way.” 

His gaze flickered pointedly to Justyna’s untouched plate. “Maybe you should be, Lord Lettenhove.”

The words stung worse than any punch he’d taken, and it was all he could do not to physically recoil from it. ‘Fuck’, he thought and bit down hard on his lip. ‘Janina might think me our father, but I can’t.’ He averted his gaze. “I am not.”

“Are you sure, my lord? You seem awfully prickly this morning.”

‘Don’t test me, Geralt.’ “I am sure.” He wet his lips, weighing his next words carefully: “I know how much you detest mingling with company. So, I gather you’ll thank me that your absence will be excused from any further informal gatherings in my home."

"Hm," Geralt answered.

"Won’t you?"

"Thank you, my lord," he said. For some strange reason he sounded as if it was no favour at all. 

With a heavy sigh he stood. "If you'll excuse me now? I've got a sister to tend to,” he said and fled the scene as quickly as possible without running. He could barely keep his balance as it was, he didn’t need an accelerated velocity to further his malaise.

He crossed over the courtyard and slipped into the West Wing, dodging a flock of servants darting from the kitchen. When he opened the door to peek inside, he was glad to find it empty. A curtain lecture from Ana was the last thing he needed. 

Jaskier moved inside, collecting a tray as he went. He filled it with a hearty breakfast that made his own stomach churn, complete with a pitcher of water and a bottle of fine herb liquor he knew Justyna would appreciate. Or at least thank him later for. However, when he reached into the cupboard left of the fireplace. “Fuck.” It was empty.

He sighed and opened the next one. ‘There’s no way in hell she’s got none,’ he thought as he began his scavenger hunt for Ana’s magical powder that cured even the worst of hangovers. However, rifling through the cabinets as quiet as possible was a challenging endeavour on a good day. And today was not a good day. 

He whipped around when he heard someone clear their throat behind him, wincing from more than just the pain. His head cook stood in the doorway, hands on her hips with a large wooden spoon, tapping her feet impatiently. "Ana, a wonderful morning, isn't it?"

"It is, though not for seein’ you, y’little rascal," she said with a grim expression. He tried his most innocent smile and she sighed. “Y’know, Master Julek, I noticed a lot o’ my powder went missin’ the last few weeks. You wouldn’t know where it went, would ya?”

“I fear I do,” he confessed.

She snorted, not very impressed and stirred the pot that was hanging over the fire. “It’s not that I like to see you suffer,” she said and turned to him with a soft look on her face. “But I’m worried for you, m’lord.”

“Oh, Ana…”

“Stronger men than you’ve drowned their lives in a bottle, lad. Don’ do that to us.” She shook her head stubbornly. "Now, what did I tell you about my kitchen, Master Julian?"

"That I am neither to enter it," he said sheepishly, "nor to touch anything with my dirty mits."

"Out with you, then. I have work to do," she huffed and pushed past him, and he hurried to catch up with her.

"Oh, I would love that, but alas, I fear that is simply without the realm of possibilities for me. You see, it is not me I come searching your panacea for, but my beloved sister - who is in a rather grave condition, and I plan on alleviating her from her ailment. I only need-"

"Take it." She rolled her eyes affectionately and thrust a soft leather pouch into his hands. “Take care of her, then. And of yourself, too, m’lord.”

He beamed. "Right! Thank you so much, Ana, I'll be on my way now." He looked over his shoulder to check for the last time that no-one was around and pecked her on the cheek. "Thank you."

She laughed and shook her head fondly. "Off ya go, lad. Don't come back soon."

"I won't, I won't," he promised and picked up his tray. He was about to try push the door open with his hip like he had seen the servants do, when Ana’s shriek stopped him. “Don’ you dare, m’lord, you’ll break all of the fine tableware you’re carryin’,” she chided and got the door for him. “Foolish lad, thinkin’ he’s got talents he’s got no business havin’- Marta, go with his lordship and help him with the food for the gods’ sake!” 

Truth be told, he was glad to get rid of his paraphernalia. That way he could at least be sure all of his offerings would actually arrive unscathed. Marta was able to open the doors with her hip, although, he noticed even more impressed, she didn’t even need to, for she could balance the tray in one hand alone. He felt a bit stupid, actually, that she held the door to the North Wing open for him instead of the other way around. 

Upon his return to Lettenhove, he had been quite surprised to find out that the oldest part of the castle had transferred its occupancy to his sisters since he had last lived here. It was also the ugliest, if anyone asked him; that whole eleventh century charm did nothing for him. In his youth, it had been Uncle Albert and his family, as well as a few other lesser cousins who had claimed it, as it was tradition.

In the past, there had been three families safekeeping Lettenhove for the Counts of Hangfelt, each of the wings the seats of these lesser houses. Minus the West Wing, of course, that had always housed the kitchens and servants. But in the aftermath of great-great-grandpapa slaying the heir of Dergetten and thus elevating the Pankratzes to nobility, he had also made sure to tie the other two houses to his by marriage and sooner rather than later, the three families had become one.

The North Tower had at least been able to retain its usage by the noble family, as home to the younger Pankratz siblings and their households once they married and reached maturity. The South Wing hadn’t been quite as lucky, as it now served as a guest wing.

‘And the East Wing is just lonely, home to none but Lord and Lady and heir.’ It always had been, as long as he could remember. But he had been terrified of Grandpa Julian as much as of his father himself. He wondered if it was something within the building that made the Lords Lettenhove so sullen and bitter. He hoped not. 

Marta deposited the tray on a table next to Justyna’s door and knocked diligently. No answer followed.

“Go back to your work,” he told her quietly, “I’ll take it from here.” He knocked again, once she was away. Nothing still. "Good morning!"

All he heard was a muffled groan and took it as an invitation to step inside, careful in first opening the door, then picking up the tray and walking through. "How are you feeling on this crisp winter's morn?" he asked, far more enthusiastic than he felt as he put it down on her nightstand. Seeing Justyna huddled under her covers, her hair a mess and looking rather pale did wonders for his own hangover. There was even a little spring in his step when he crossed over the room to close the door again. 

"I am dying," she moaned and buried her face deeper into her pillow. "Have you come to deliver the _coup de grâce_?"

"Something like that," he said with a smirk and poured two glasses of the liquor. "I come bearing more alcohol."

She raised her head and made a disgusted grimace, her face wrinkled by the impression of the embroidered coverlet she hadn’t managed to take off. "You _are_ trying to kill me."

"I assure you; I am not. Drink up. You know it'll help."

"Ughh," she said and struggled to get into a sitting position. "Cheers..." They both knocked the glass back and grimaced.

"Eugh, I hate it…” He shuddered. “Now that that's done, I brought a _real_ cure." He took the pouch Ana had given him and deposited a good portion of it into the pitcher.

"Is that Ana’s?” He nodded and chugged one cup immediately. She sighed and accepted hers. “You're an angel."

"Don't thank me yet.” He patted her hair gently. “For although I am your saviour, I also plan to drag you out of bed. Your daughter and son start their training today, you should be present.”

“Ughh…” She flopped back against the pillows. “You’re a cruel man, Lord Lettenhove.”

“Runs in the family,” he said with a hefty pat on her shoulder as he stood up. “I’ll send a bath up. Feel free to join me on the balustrade whenever you feel like it. Just don’t take too long.”

He didn’t go down to the courtyard immediately, for he knew his legs would grow numb if he truly intended to wait for Justyna there. Instead he tried to kill time in his study, reading a bit, drafting a letter, trying not to think about Gera-

Midday was rapidly approaching when he couldn’t take it anymore and abandoned his hiding place to go watch the training in the courtyard. As much as it made his stomach churn, he couldn’t lecture Geralt about respect if he didn’t display any either. 

Maybe it would even help him to see children enjoying the lessons. While Julek didn’t seem quite as enthusiastic as the two girls he shared the courtyard with, Ciri and Daria seemed to have a great time, although Jaskier couldn’t fathom why. But they were laughing and running around and while Geralt wasn’t always gentle when berating them, he didn’t seem cruel either. Exhausted, definitely, but that was on him, and he didn’t use his students as an outlet. That was all that counted in Jaskier’s book. 

Maybe half an hour into his silent watch, Janina returned from her trip into the village. He nodded to her when she passed below, hand on his sword and stone-faced. It didn’t take much longer for Justyna to finally join him.

"You look just like him," she announced her presence and passed behind him to get to his left side.

"Don't say that."

She laughed quietly and leaned onto the railing to peer at her children below. They were just taking a break and Ciri and Daria seemed to play a game that involved slapping each other’s hands. "I see you still suffer from selective blindness when it comes to the truth, brother."

"It’s more of a perpetual nausea evoked by the memories of Lord Lettenhove."

"You and me both, dearest... You and me both..."

He glanced towards her. “You look better than anticipated.”

She chortled and played with a loose strand of hair that had slipped from her hairnet. “Is that how you acquired your legendary reputation as a heartthrob, brother? My heart would break, too, if such a gorgeous man would approach me with such a horrendous compliment. ‘You look better than anticipated…’”

“Stop flattering yourself, you menace,” he grinned. “You’re thirty-three years old, forgive me if my expectations towards your appearance aren’t too high after four bottles of wine and half of my best liquor.”

“Four? Now that explains quite a lot…” She groaned. “Are we getting old, Jaskier? Gracious gods, we are, aren’t we?”

“Soon we’ll be shrivelled as a raisin and we’ll be suffering like this after four sips of wine and not four bottles,” he lamented.

“Look who’s talking,” another voice said, accompanied by the clicking of a lock. “What am _I_ supposed to say if you two are complaining already?” 

"Janina.” He couldn’t say he wasn’t surprised. “To what do we owe the pleasure?"

"Curiosity, if you like." She took her place at his other side, her rigid posture a twisted reflection of Justyna leisurely leaning on the railing. "Worry, if you must know."

He sighed. "We've been here before."

"We have," she agreed, and her expression darkened even more when they heard a sharp call from below as Geralt announced the end of the break. 

"I see nothing much has changed..."

"This is not about our difference of opinions, Julian. But these two are not your children, nor are they orphans."

"They are _my_ children," Justyna chimed in, "and I requested it."

She jerked her head around to their younger sister. "And what will their father say when he sees them training with a witcher?"

"Luckily, their father is not Lord Lettenhove. So, within these walls, he will say nothing at all," Justyna quipped. "Please, Janina, do us both a favour and use the eyes the gods have endowed you with. Does he seem unreasonable? Unjust? Cruel?"

"I couldn't tell," she answered calmly, "I am not the one who was trained in sword fighting."

Jaskier could feel two sets of piercing blue eyes resting on him. "He isn't," he said quietly. In comparison to his old teachers, Geralt was almost coddling his three students; he was almost gentle, even, as gentle as one could be, teaching weaponry. It wouldn't spare them the bruises and sore muscles that came with it, but no scars children wouldn't recover from. "He's a good teacher. Lord Kerton is welcome to try to stop the lessons once he decides to give up the comfort of your husband’s home, but I won't have any of that. Neither of him nor of you."

"Don't be glum, Jaskier,” Justyna tried to soothe. “You know old dogs don't learn new tricks."

"I'm neither old nor a dog, thank you very much. And besides, I like the girl well enough."

He bit back a retort about how he had just complained about her own age. "The girl, but not the witcher."

"Don't be ridiculous, of course not the witcher."

Justyna sighed and turned to face them. "Come on, Janka, it's been twenty-four years since mother died. Don't you think you should let that particular ghost rest in peace?"

"How could she," Janina said calmly, "when she lies next to father?"

"Truer words..." Jaskier muttered.

"I'd drink to that," Justyna added, "if I wasn’t convinced it’d be my death."

"Not here," Jaskier groaned, "you'd be interred in the crypt."

They all shared a grimace of disgust. "Gods have mercy on us," Justyna prayed.

"And may they grant us all a death far away from this land,” Janina added.

Jaskier couldn't help but laugh. Before he could stop himself, he pulled them close. "It feels good to have you home with me."

Justyna put her head on his shoulder and nodded, but Janina drew away quickly. "Don't overstep, little brother. I still dislike you something fierce."

"Oh, no, that feeling is definitely mutual," he said hastily.

"We're family," Justyna said, as if that explained everything. And somehow, it did. He hadn’t had a say in who were his sisters, and while he had been able to choose another family on the Path, loving either was not a choice. They didn’t bear much resemblance, he mused as he watched Geralt help Daria to her feet; besides that, he loved them just as much, just as fervently, just as unapologetically.

‘Only that I can’t seem to get rid of them.’ But then again, he didn’t want to either. He had missed Geralt terribly and though he wouldn’t admit it under torture, he had missed his sisters, too. Even Janina. ‘If I like it or not, they are the people who made me who I am today.’ 

Janina slapped lightly him on the arm. "You're a horrible little brother," she accused him, and he briefly reconsidered his feelings for her. "You dipped my braids into ink and washed my silks with horsepiss. And _you_ ," she turned to Justyna and raised an accusatory finger, "slipped me a laxative when I was about to confess my feelings to my first love! And that’s not even the worst of it."

“Now that’s not fair,” the accused answered with a sly smile, “dear Julian gave you the biscuits.”

"Ohh, I remember. I did!" Jaskier grinned. "It was that dreadful young bard father brought here one winter. What was his name again?"

"Gods, I don't even recall." Janina laughed, too. "But he always wore those horrible red boots."

"Who, the one with the mistuned lyre?” Their younger sister furrowed her brow. “Wasn't he called Ian or something?"

Janina gasped. “You’re right! Ian the Ingenious Poet, he called himself.” She made a disgusted grimace. “Come to think of it, I had a horrible taste at fourteen years."

Justyna sighed overly dramatic. "We tried to tell you, dearest sister, but you just wouldn't listen to reason. He was a horrible lyrist besides."

"He was. You ripped him a new one at age twelve.” She turned to Jaskier and poked her finger into his chest. “Another reason why I despise you."

"Oh, come on,” he taunted. “You're not an exemplary sister either. I seem to remember at least one time when you stole the sweets from the kitchen and told Ana it had been me."

"Right!” Justyna jumped to his defence. “Or that you told every maid in the whole castle I was your bastard sister by an incubus and that I’d suck their souls from their bodies with a simple kiss!"

Jaskier and Janina looked at each other and burst out laughing. "Actually," he piped up, "I helped her with that. I was the one who told Marin, and he told his mother. It was a breeze after that."

" _What?!_ " she shrieked. "Julian Alfred Pankratz, you horrible, horrible man! How could you? I expected that kind of betrayal from her, but you?! My beloved brother?"

He shrugged. "All's fair in love and war."

She huffed and crossed her arms in front of her chest. "Well, in that case, let me tell you - that it was _me_ who got Józefa to puke onto your first lute."

He gasped. "You didn't! That little menace, if I get her in my grasp..." Both of his sisters doubled over laughing and he joined them with no delay. A strange sight, surely, that earned them curious glances from the servants and garrison gathered in the courtyard alike. And Geralt, too, although he did his best to pretend, he wasn't staring. "Shhh, shhh," Jaskier hissed, "Marta's down there. She'd have a stroke if she saw you laughing, Janka.”

“Right, right,” his sister did his best to sober up. There was still the odd giggle escaping her lips when he looked around searchingly. 

“Speaking of Józefa, where is the runt of our litter?"

Janina sighed and rolled her eyes. "Still working on her tapestry, I believe."

"Great gods," Justyna muttered, "does she ever do anything else? Every winter the same old song. You'd thought she ought to be faster by now."

"She's also writing the odd letter or two, I believe. And reading quite a lot."

"Reading?" she asked surprised and turned to Jaskier. "Since when is she interested in books?"

He raised his hands in defence. "Don't ask me. I wouldn't know. What is she reading about?"

"Flowers, I believe,” Janina answered with a frown. “And poems."

"Maybe she's in love," Justyna suggested.

Jaskier shuddered. "I don't even want to think of that possibility. My baby sister, in love..."

Janina snorted. "Don't be ridiculous. You'd already fucked yourself halfway across the continent when you were her age."

He gasped indignantly. "Janina, such language-"

" _Also_ ," she interrupted him, "she begged me to ask your leave to visit a friend for a few weeks after the banquet in Goldfurt. She promised to return before the solstice, though."

"Well, she can bloody well ask me herself," he scoffed. "Poems..."

"A few of yours, I believe. Quite a lot of others as well. I have heard the name Valdo Marx more than once."

He groaned loudly. "Dear gods..."

Justyna grinned widely and extended her hand. "Oh, she's definitely in love. Fifty crowns say she's visiting that mysterious lover."

Janina snorted and shook her hand. "You're on. I say, she's too shy for that. Julek?"

"A hundred crowns says it's a girl," he said after a moment of hesitation.

Janina raised her eyebrows and Justyna snorted. "Sure, why not? Janina, you collect the bids?"

"Who else would?" she said and turned around. "I'll go check with the garrison."

"Geralt!" a shout rang over the courtyard and made them all stop in their tracks. Marin just left the guard room and sauntered over to the witcher. They kissed for everyone to see, shoving and swatting at each other, and laughing. Loudly. It made Jaskier’s head hurt.

"On second thought," Justyna said, "maybe do it later."

Jaskier frowned deeply and turned away. 'Now that isn't fair,' he thought. He had long resigned himself to the knowledge that his feelings for Geralt would never be reciprocated. But seeing him with the first man he'd ever fallen in love with? That was a special kind of cruelty.

Janina clicked her tongue in disapproval and shook her head. He was thinking of a witty reply, but before he could come up with anything, Justyna said with a heavy sigh: "What is it now?"

"I can't believe that your witcher really bedded the Captain of the Guard," Janina chided. "It is neither right nor proper."

"Oh, please spare us your bigotry," he replied icily. "Geralt can bed whoever he likes."

"Sure," she drawled, "which is why you're so snippy about it. Besides," she crossed her arms, "he is mocking you. And you know it."

He huffed a breath and shook his head. "I don't want to believe he is."

"Unfortunately, your wishes matter not in these affairs. It is what it is, and that is mockery."

He bit down on his lip, almost hard enough to draw blood, had there not been the comforting weight of Justyna's hand on his shoulder. "Go collect the bets," she said gently. "The depths of our sibling love are quite exhausted for today."

"Thank the gods," she responded. "I thought I wouldn't be able to shake you at all anymore." With that she disappeared inside.

"Jaskier," Justyna began, but he shook his head.

"Not now, please." Thankfully her attention was diverted by the sound of rapid footsteps on the stairs and the recurring image of an energetic ten-year-old girl slamming into him. “Jaskier!” Ciri cried and hugged him tight. “Did you watch me? Did you see?”

“I did, madam,” he answered dutifully. “You seemed to enjoy yourself a lot.”

“Thank you, Jaskier,” she said and beamed at him. 

“He speaks true, if I dare say so myself,” Justyna chimed in. You’ll best your master before you know it.” 

Her smile grew even wider at that. ‘She’s learning to trust people again,’ he noticed with relief as they conversed almost easily. A bright spot on her head caught his attention. ‘And we need to re-dye her hair.’

“As much as I'd love for this conversation to carry on,” he cut them off, “I fear I have some business to attend to." He hadn't, but she didn't need to know.

"What business?" Ciri asked eagerly and he cursed silently. He should have known he wouldn't be able to shake her that easily.

"Financial matters, dear," he lied, "it's terribly boring."

That still didn't manage to deter her. "Can I come with you?"

"Not now, cublet. You need a bath first." 'And I need to get rid of that hangover.' "Tomorrow you may, if you're still interested. I think I've got a letter or two you might want to help me answer."

"You're the best," she said and her eyes gleamed. After a short moment of hesitation, she added, half a breath, half a whisper: "Uncle Jaskier."

'Oh,' he thought as tears welled up in his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, you won't be able to convince me like that. Run along, child, I believe your cousins are waiting."

‘Waiting’ was a nice term for ‘being herded inside by Miss Nina’; still, she ran to catch up to them. “Wait for me! I want to go to the tunnels, too!”

"Try not to damage my castle too much!" he shouted after them. "Borys, see that they don't." He turned around to Justyna, who was smiling smugly. "Really? Did you _have_ to tell them about the Tomb?" It had been their favourite hideout as kids and now she was apparently sharing their secret with just about any child she could find. 

"You're grooming her as your heir," she said in lieu of an answer. "Oh, Damian will be furious when he sees this."

Jaskier chuckled lowly. "Don't be ridiculous, Konwalia, I'm doing no such thing."

"Of course, you are! Father wouldn't even let you touch his letters until you were thirteen and everyone knew you'd be Lord Lettenhove after his death." He frowned deeply, considering her words and she laughed loudly. "Oh, come on. Don't tell me you hadn't noticed."

He hadn't, truth be told. But he guessed it was true to some point. "Hm," he answered.

"But what will your fiancée say?"

"She doesn't have to know about it," he said. "Yet."

"Don't you think she deserves the truth? Don't you think your sister does? Who is Fiona really?"

He huffed and smiled at her. "I'm afraid I can't tell you."

"What, don't you trust me?" A smile danced around Justyna’s lips. It was dangerous and poisonous, just like anything else about her.

"No," he answered earnestly. "No, I don't."

Justyna laughed loudly and patted his cheek affectionately. "Smart lad. I wouldn't trust myself either. But don't think you can keep it a secret forever. There are more people than you'd like who know that Cousin Daniela died in her cradle."

He nodded slowly. 'Fuck,' he thought. "Do you trust me?"

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Right... I'll tell you. Eventually. Just know that right now I can't."

"And you still expect me to protect her?"

"Never.” She might be family and he might trust her with his own life, but Ciri? ‘Two people and a dead horse.’ “But I do expect that no harm comes to her from you. She is protected by the castle peace, as is Geralt."

Justyna’s eyes flared. "What do you take me for? A monster?"

"I take you for a Baroness who dabbles in politics."

"Same difference,” she said with a smirk and Jaskier was inclined to agree. "I wouldn't have hurt them regardless, just so you know. " She turned back to the door. "Not children. Not people you love.” 

He chewed on his lip nervously. What on earth was he supposed to answer to that? 

She took the decision from him when she said: “Come, Julek. I want to visit father's grave now."

"I have business!" he tried to fend her off.

"'I have business'," she mocked him. "Who are you trying to kid? You dragged me out of bed, so now be useful at least. As useful as you can be given your current state."

She linked arms with him and began dragging him down the stairs, out of the gates where Geralt had vanished with Marin, and towards the graveyard. "So... That witcher of yours."

Jaskier sighed. "That witcher of mine indeed."

"After your songs and yesterday's tales I have to admit I am quite surprised to find him in another's arms."

"After my songs and yesterday's tales you should know that is precisely where you should expect to find him."

“Oh, Jaskier…”

“No,” he said sharply, “don’t you ‘Oh, Jaskier’ me. I am not here for you to pity me.”

"I will do it nonetheless,” she said so quietly he suspected he wasn’t supposed to hear, before they came to a halt before the large stone monolith beneath which Lord and Lady Lettenhove had found their final resting place. Justyna untangled her arms from his and stepped forward, trampling over earth and flowers alike, to trace the engraved letters of their names. "I have to admit," she sighed, "I do feel sorry for this, mother."

"Sorry for what- _Justyna_!" Before he could even finish his sentence, she had gathered her skirts and crouched down. "Are you- what are you _doing_?!"

She closed her eyes and hummed contently; the satisfied sound accompanied by a distinct pattering that told him _exactly_ what she was doing.

"Gods great and small, save us all," he murmured and turned his back to her. The defiling of the grave was bad enough, but he didn't have to stand witness to it.

"Ahh," she said after a while and came to stand beside him once more, smoothing out her skirts, "much better."

"Did you really have to do that?" he asked and winced.

"Julian."

"Justyna."

"I really had to do that," she said earnestly.

He huffed what might have been a laugh. "Alright then."

"Actually, I wanted to do this before even coming up to the keep, as the first act of greeting my home after fifteen years of absence. But then I thought Daria and Julian didn't need to know how terrible of a person their grandfather really was."

He couldn't help but gape, trying to process all of that. Strangely, "You haven't come home since your marriage?" was the first thing that came to his mind when he was done.

"No. You haven’t come home since going off to Oxenfurt either."

"I did last year," he tried to defend himself although he knew it was to no avail. There was a reason why he had avoided the topic until now. “Why-?”

She scoffed. "I had no interest in seeing the man who called himself our father. Not since he sold me to the highest bidder."

"Justyna, I understand your anger. But that's how things are done."

"So, you would do the same?” She whipped around to him. “You'd sell your Fiona for a dowry?"

"No!” Jaskier wanted to say something, to tell her that she wasn’t his, but not even that he could do with the nauseating memory of Count Hangfelt making his offer. “Of course not!"

She straightened herself and set her jaw. "So, you understand the inhumanity of it."

Jaskier threw up his hands. "He did it to all of us!"

"No, Julian, he didn't. Because you are here, unbound and unmarried, as is dear darling Józefa, the angel." She scoffed. "As is Jolanta in Novigrad. Only Janina and I were forced to spread our legs for men we despise and who have no qualms showing us their displeasure with their wives in turn.

"And why? Because we didn't manage to seduce a rich merchant or witcher to whisk us away. Because we had nowhere left to run but the traditions that are supposed to protect us.” She shook her head disbelievingly. “We always played by the rules, always obeyed, and what did we get in return? We were crushed by them, just like our foremothers. "

"I- I am sorry," he stammered. "I don't know what to tell you."

"Then better say nothing at all. Mutism is a blessing for the blind."

There were tears glistening on her face now, so he reached out for her. "Justyna-"

"No, don't touch me!" She batted his hand away. "You know what the worst part of this is? That I don't have any choice but to sell my own daughter as well."

"What do you mean? Your dowry-"

"My dowry! Pray tell me, where is it? All those precious jewels you see are nothing more than glass. Just... shut up, Jaskier. My dowry is long lost in whorehouses and gambling dens, squandered by my husband."

He set his jaw. "I won't let anything happen to Daria. I've got money. I can protect her."

"You can't and you damn well know it. Daria is a Kerton, just like I am. Damian can do whatever he likes with us. He ensured that when he wasted my money. And I'm going to kill him for it."

He couldn’t help his jaw dropping open. "I- He- He's your husband, Justyna,” he stammered once he had gathered himself. “ _Family_. You can't kill him."

She scoffed and cast her eyes skyward in disbelief. "You don't understand."

"No. Maybe I don't."

Her gaze was as icy as the freezing air around them. “You don’t even try to.” With a blink of the eye she was gone, stalking back towards the castle towering above them, and abandoning Jaskier amidst their ghosts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo, that's that! I hope this chapter was as much to your liking as the previous ones? I had a blast, finally showing the soft core of Janina, she has hidden quite effectively until now :)  
> The next chapter will be up as soon as I manage with A Broken Journey, where Geralt escorts Jaskier and his sisters to Goldfurt for a banquet Janina's husband hosts.  
> Until then, come chat to me in the comments or on [tumblr](https://dhwty-writes.tumblr.com/)!


	18. A Broken Journey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt is on bard protection duty while on the way to Goldfurt, the seat of Janina's "beloved" husband. What could possibly go wrong?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand I'm back with another chapter! Given the time I made you wait, I won't distract you with any of my ramblings. Enjoy!

The stink of rot filled the freezing cold air, accompanied by a piercing scream, and Geralt cursed as he wheeled not-Roach II around. "What's happening?" he demanded, but didn’t get to finish his question before a muffled cry from the back of the column announced: "Nekker!"

"Geralt—" Jaskier began, but he paid him no heed.

"Fuck," he cursed, not quite sure if he was talking to the Viscount or his rear guard, "stay where you are!" He dug his heels into the horse's sides, trying to get to them. It would have been an easy feat if not for the damned carriage flanked by guards blocking the whole bloody road, filled to the brim with Pankratz sisters reeking of sour vinegar fear.

More faint curses and strenuous grunts reached his ears as he snapped at the Kerton guards to give some fucking way. "Oh fuck, oh shit," he heard Borys' strained voice, "no you won't, you damned beast- shit, Geralt!"

A beat of silence followed as the Kerton guard finally moved his horse off the road, so Geralt could pass. Finally, he could see the beast when Borys shouted: "I'm fine! We're fine."

"Shit," he grunted and slid off the horse's back.

"Shit indeed," Borys agreed. "Where's Marin?"

He crouched down to get a better look. "Scouting ahead." His inspection of the body was accompanied by incessant talking: "Fuck, let me through, for the gods' sake! He's my witcher, let me through, I need to see—"

He tried to tune it out and turned back to the beast. It was _very_ dead. Unfortunately, Borys wasn't done with his interrogation: "And his lordship?"

"Apparently coming this way." He poked it with his silver sword. Not so much as a twitch. 'The idiot.'

Just that morning he had dressed whilst the Captain of the Guard had knocked on his door. " _So, about that oath_ ," he had said with a deep frown. " _You don't leave his side, yeah?_ "

" _Wouldn't think of it._ " The way to Goldfurt wasn't a dangerous journey, nor even a long one. But apparently the annual soiree was known to draw in every lord, knight, and magnate of the area.

It was an easy enough target for any roving band of well-armed bandits worth their salt. 'Or nekkers, apparently.' And the safety of their buttons and purses was not the worst thing thieves could relieve them off. Not with Ciri travelling in the carriage.

She was the reason Jaskier had taken the additional precaution of an escort of half a dozen guards—additionally to Marin and a witcher. She was also the reason why Geralt's only duty was to look out for the Viscount. With him taken care of, the rest of them could keep all eyes on the bulky box that loudly rattled through the countryside.

Not that he minded. He liked having an excuse to stay close to Jaskier. His not-friend had even taken up his usual chatter in lack of another conversational partner. That and to hide the chattering of his teeth, Geralt suspected.

Geralt got up with a sigh. Borys and his colleague had done quite an impressive job, considering they were only human. "That one won't rise again anytime soon."

Borys wiped sweat off his brow, smearing the blood on it in the process. "Well, that was easier than expected. Watch out, witcher, or I'll give you a run for your money. Was that all?"

"No," Geralt answered as a voice behind him cut in: "Not in the least, I fear. Nekker, you said? Nekkers seldom travel alone, there's a pack probably right around the corner. Am I right, my witcher?"

Geralt whipped around to see a far too smug looking Jaskier on Pegasus' back and bit back a growl. The damned bard knew better than to get this close, knew better than to talk, so that Geralt couldn't hear a bloody thing--shit, they were close.

"Right," he barked and heaved himself up into not-Roach II's saddle again, "and they're close. Get the women and children—"

He was interrupted again: "—to safety, have the other humans clear the road—hand you the bombs and the ogroid oil—yes, I know. I have neither bombs on my person, but the rest has been taken care of." The scuffle behind them was proof enough. The noble ladies abandoned their wheeled prison and were led by the guards to the underbrush, further away from where the fight would inevitably take place. "You two, too,” he motioned at Borys and his companion. “Go and help the others."

The two guards were quick to oblige, still shaken by their recent encounter with a monster. But Geralt had no eyes for them. "Then what," he growled at Jaskier, "are you still doing here?"

The stubborn bastard squared his shoulders and put a hand on the pommel of his useless ceremonial sword. "I am coming with you."

"No." The thought alone was enough to send ice water coursing through his veins.

"Yes, I am. This is dangerous--”

"Which is why, you're going to stay with the rest. I'm a witcher, I've handled this before. And I will handle it again. Now. Go!"

"But--!"

"We don't have time!" Geralt roared, though it wasn't loud enough to drown out the sound of the unspoken words: 'But you had Roach. But you had your potions. But you were prepared.' He couldn't allow himself to think too much about it.

"I won't die today," he promised, stupidly. "Ride on, Jaskier. We both know you can't fight for shit." He turned not-Roach II around, ready to charge at the approaching nekkers. For some stupid reason he hesitated.

"My witcher--" 

"My lord--" they said simultaneously. For a moment they just stared. Then, they nodded in silent agreement. 'Stay safe,' he thought as he spurned not-Roach II on.

Clearing his head of concern for Jaskier and Ciri alike was harder than Geralt dared to admit. So, it should be no surprise that when the first nekker appeared, an arc of silver sliced through empty air.

'Get a grip, Geralt,' he thought angrily as he tugged on the reins to bring the horse to a halt. 'Making friends gets you talking. Talking gets you sloppy. Sloppy gets you killed.'

The next strike hit home and cleaved the bastard's neck clean off his neck. 'Two,' he made a mental tally. He only hoped it was a small pack.

Not-Roach II’s ears flicked, the horse as so often aware of a beast's presence long before the witcher. It was pure instinct that made him turn around and knock the beast back with Aard before it could take a bite out of the poor animal. He slid off its back and sheathed his silver blade in the nekker's gut with the same motion. 'Three,' he thought and clapped the horse on the flank to send it off to the others.

The next ones he could smell and feel as the earth rumbled beneath him. He spun away, bringing himself between the beasts and the humans, as three of them broke free from the ground and shrieked horribly. "Scream all you want," he growled, "all you'll find here is your death."

They charged at once and Geralt desperately wished for a bomb as he backed up. Or even a dose of Swallow. His Aard didn't throw them back much, but at least it gave him time to relieve one of them of its left arm before they swarmed him.

The world moved into a blur as he ducked and slashed and stabbed, guts and blood splattering over his face and newly-cleaned armour. He wasn't quite sure how much time had passed or how many of them he had killed when he came back to himself, panting and sweating, his sword still buried deep in a nekker's gut.

With a grunt he wrenched it free and took in the destruction around him. 'Ten,' he counted and wiped his sword on his pants. 'Not bad without assistance.' He stabbed the nekker below him again, to make sure it was really dead, while he did his best to stifle his surprise.

He was still checking he had killed them all when he heard it: "Geralt?" a too well-known voice called meekly. "Are you done yet?"

With a snarl he whipped around. "How many times, bard? I fucking told you to stay back!"

"Ah, yes, you're done." With a sigh the Viscount stepped out of the underbrush, the heady scent of sour fear mixing with honeyed happiness and soap. Relief? Was Jaskier relieved? "Though I might remind you that neither am I a bard anymore, nor do your commands bear any weight against me now."

Uncaring for his bloodied appearance, he stepped into Jaskier's personal space and growled: "You are an idiot, my lord. I—"

Without so much batting his lashes he smirked. "You're not the first person to say that, nor will you be the last," he replied completely unfazed. "Probably not even today."

"I do not command you for my pleasure, I do it to protect you!" he bellowed. The words rang through the woods incredibly loud. Long after he had spoken the truth into existence, they still echoed in their uncomfortable silence, as they stared at each other.

Jaskier was the first to glance away, but he did not back up. "Well, I'm glad we've settled that particular question." He wet his lips nervously, his eyes flickering about. It made Geralt's skin crawl. "You should cut their heads off."

"What?" It took him a while to break out of his paralysis. Still not moving away he turned his head to follow Jaskier's gaze. Right. The nekkers. "Why?" he asked, irritated. "There's no contract."

Jaskier scoffed and finally took a step backwards. Geralt felt like he could breathe again. "Oh, there will be," he promised. "We will be resting for a bit," the Viscount decreed. "Marin should be back soon enough, we can continue then. Here." He tossed him a satchel. "Come back once you're done."

With that he vanished in the thicket again. Soon the blue velvet vanished even from a witcher's gaze and Geralt was forced to turn back to the task at hand. 'Fuck, Jaskier,' he thought while he was chopping off heads, 'what are you doing to me?'

He was quick to complete his task and stored the heads in the satchel, now dripping with blood. Together with the other guards he cleared out a spot near the road, where they piled the bodies onto each other, so they could burn them. No use in them coming back to life in any way, shape or form.

After a quick Igni the air filled with the unpleasant scent of charred flesh, and Geralt went back to the group of waiting nobles. With the danger passed a jovial atmosphere had settled in.

A high-pitched screech of laughter fluttered through the air. Ciri and Daria swept past him and leapt into a nearby pile of leaves, fleeing Miss Nina's watchful eyes. He couldn't help but smile. It was oddly calming to see children just play. 'Ciri deserves it.'

Even the adults seemed to enjoy the clear late autumn day. The three Pankratz sisters stood in front of the carriage, chatting amiably. The governess was with them, too. She was currently talking to Julek, who covered his ears and stared at her with wide fearful eyes. He was a strange boy, Geralt thought. He pitied him. The world was no kind place for strange children.

He almost went over to take a closer look, when he was distracted by a pristine white kerchief that was thrust into his face. "Here," Jaskier said, "at least clean your face, will you?"

Geralt raised a curious eyebrow. "That's hardly necessary. I wouldn't want to soil your precious cloth with... nekker guts."

"I insist," Jaskier insisted. A hesitant smile danced around his lips. "There are some luxuries you may indulge in in my service. A clean face after saving my life is one of them."

"Hmm." He took the soft cloth with careful fingers and wiped at his face under Jaskier's watchful gaze. "Better?"

"Not quite," he murmured. "Here, let me..." He gently took the handkerchief from his hands and stepped closer. It was a fine, soft cloth, the initials J.A.P. embroidered on the corner with which Jaskier dabbed at his skin. It felt softer still in the Viscount's nimble fingers.

"Better," he decreed finally and snapped Geralt out of his calm state of mind.

"Thank you," he said quietly.

Jaskier smiled, before his eyes widened as if he just realised how close they were standing. "Oh, um. Better. Here. Take it." He thrust the handkerchief forward again.

"My lord—"

"It's got blood on it, now. I don't want it anymore."

"Hmm." Geralt took it from him and stuffed it into his sleeve when he heard hoofbeats in the distance. His head snapped around to see a rider heading towards them at full speed.

The Viscount de Lettenhove cocked his head with a pliant smile on his face. "What is it?"

"A rider." He pushed him behind his back with his free hand. "Too far away to make out any details."

Jaskier laughed. Geralt knew it was supposed to sound light-hearted, but it didn't. "Probably just Marin."

"Hmm." He wasn't about to take any risks. Not after what had happened earlier.

Geralt exhaled a white puff of frozen breath and strained his eyes. Slowly, he lowered his blade. "It's Marin."

"See?" Jaskier smiled triumphantly. "I told you it's just him. No need for you to worry about me."

"And here I was, thinking worrying about you's my job." Jaskier's smile fell as the one on Geralt's face grew wide.

Before either of them had a chance to deal the finishing blow, the Captain of the Guard bridled his mare in front of them; a cloud of frozen dust flew up in their faces. "My lord," he greeted with a curt nod, "the city gates are less than an hour away. They have been informed of your impending arrival." Marin winked at Geralt as he dismounted and handed his reins to one of the other guards.

After that first tumble in the hay, there had been others--some quite literally so. Marin had been right; he _had_ a knack for stress relief. So, Geralt had no qualms about falling into bed with him. Not every time there was a bed involved, sometimes it was just a stable wall or a tree in the woods--but it was all the same to him. It was fun and easy, and they both got to blow off some steam. It seemed like a sensible enough arrangement for the winter.

It was a nice change, too. Normally the cold season meant that he had to take matters into his own hands, which was easier in Lettenhove than in a witchers' keep. He was fairly certain that Jaskier wouldn't be able to hear him and he _knew_ that he couldn't smell him. But _Geralt_ could and that was perhaps even worse.

He was glad for the excuse Marin offered him to escape from the Viscount's immediate proximity. With him, at least, he had a say in setting the boundaries.

"Thank the gods," Jaskier sighed and flexed his gloved fingers to get rid of the cold. "I might get to keep my extremities after all."

Geralt resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Jaskier never dressed appropriately for the weather and his return to a noble life hadn't improved that vice in the slightest. "You could have ridden in the carriage, my lord," he informed him quietly. 'Or just donned a proper coat,' he thought. Silks and satins were not made for days when the midday sun could barely thaw the hoarfrost.

"And how would _that_ look?" the Viscount scoffed. "Speaking of appearances, fetch my sister, will you?"

He chanced a glance back at the giggling cluster of ladies. "Which one?"

"Why, the Countess of Goldfurt, of course! She desires to be seen when returning home. Marin, you can go."

"Thank you, my lord," he heard Marin answer as he walked over to the large carriage. Geralt furrowed his brows. 'Seen by whom?' he wondered. 'Seen at whose side?'

If the past two months had taught him anything it was that nobles never did anything without a reason. Their whole life was a show, a shadow play to make them seem larger than life. A glittering display of wealth and might to blind the common folk to their true nature. 'They don't have power and they know it,' he thought bitterly. 'And they're terrified of anyone else finding out.'

As a witcher he knew what could happen once the people understood they outnumbered those they blamed for their worries. It had almost meant the extinction of his guild. He didn't doubt the day when nobles' heads would roll would come, too. Strangely, he found himself hoping that that day was still in the far future. 'Let it be centuries after Jaskier's death.'

His sombre thoughts were interrupted by Miss Nina's shriek, as Ciri and Daria reappeared within her line of sight with dirty dresses and dirtier hands. "Master Julek, you stay where you are," she ordered the already immoving boy and marched over to the two whirlwinds. "Miss Kerton, Miss Nowak, what kind of behaviour is this?"

Geralt snarled quietly but tore himself away. As far as anyone was concerned, he was just 'Fiona's' fencing master. That wouldn't keep him from having a word with Jaskier, though. Or better yet, with Justyna.

As little as he liked to admit it, he couldn't help but like what he'd seen from the Lady Kerton so far. She was sharp-tongued and quick-witted with a mischievous twinkle in her eye. Since her arrival he almost imagined that the same had returned to Jaskier's face, too.

So, when he walked over to them there were two smiles greeting him, and just one frown. "My ladies," he offered as a greeting.

"Witcher," Justyna answered. "I think, thanks are in order."

He shrugged. "I'm just doing my duty, my lady."

She smiled politely. "Still, I thank you for defending our life so valiantly. I'm sure my brother will craft the most wondrous tale of this encounter."

"No, he won't," Janina scoffed. "He doesn't do that anymore. What do you want, witcher?"

He nearly growled. As much as it was the truth, he didn't like having it rubbed in his face. "We're due to arrive in Goldfurt soon," he replied tersely. "Your brother told me to fetch you."

It earned him a laugh from all three of them. "Well, if his lordship commands so," Justyna replied; it was a tease he didn't understand. "Better hurry up, Janka, you don't want to keep him waiting."

"Actually, I do," the Lady Goldfurt replied. "Especially with this weather."

Geralt did his best to keep a straight face. "He claimed it was at your behest."

Justyna chuckled. "Well, he's got you there, Stokrotka. You _did_ ask to ride at his side."

"The gods know why," Józefa muttered and stared intently at her gloved fingernails. "It's _freezing_."

Janina reached over and patted her hands. "Get married. Then you'll understand."

Józefa looked just as confused as Geralt felt in face of the silent communication that transpired between the oldest Pankratz sisters. "Well, you're right," Janina broke the silence, "I'd best be on my way. _This_ Lord Lettenhove is certainly not known for his patience."

"Was there ever one who was?" Justyna sighed and rolled her eyes. "I for my part am glad that the worst outcome is a pout with this one."

"Or the occasional threat," Janina remarked.

"You know what I mean."

"I do. At least we don't have to wake to frog spawn in our beds anymore. He's a horrible brother."

"The worst. Do witchers have siblings?" Justyna turned to him unexpectedly.

Geralt cleared his throat uncomfortably. He felt like he was listening in again, just like on the courtyard a few days prior. He didn't feel quite comfortable with having attention drawn to him either. "We do, of sorts," he answered diplomatically. "I consider the younger witchers of the wolf school my brothers in arms as well as blood even though they're not."

"How cute," Janina snorted and waved her hand. "Hand me my hat, Józefa, will you?" It was a ridiculous thing, ridiculously small with a ridiculously large feather on top. The affinity to ridiculous clothing seemed to run in the family.

Justyna rolled her eyes as her sister went to join their brother. "And your siblings, are they just as obnoxious as mine?"

"Hmm." Usually he tried to avoid thinking of Kaer Morhen. He didn't want to admit how much he missed it. How much he missed Eskel with his warm smiles and his stupid infatuation with that goat. Or Lambert with his filthy mouth and constant complaints. They were nothing like the nobles. And yet, their relationships seemed strangely similar. "I wouldn't dare insult your family by comparing it to mine," he answered with a sly smile.

She laughed heartily. "I might have to revise my earlier statement, witcher. You might be no fun, but you're certainly funny. Surely one of the many qualities why our brother kept you around for so long."

He frowned and evaded her gaze. 'It wasn't like that.'

Before he could come up with a proper answer, Józefa cut in: "I believe it was the other way around, Justynka." Geralt couldn't help but stare at her. He had completely forgotten she was there.

"Justyna!" Jaskier's indignant voice called over to them. "Janina called me Lord Lettenhove again. Come over here and help me get her to stop!"

She sighed exaggeratedly and caught Józefa by the arm. "Come on, it's high time you get roped into this sibling warfare. You're on far too good terms with all of us for a Pankratz."

"I just don't understand why he hates it so much," she mumbled as she was dragged along. "Or why she insists on doing so."

"The same reason why Janina does not care for being called a Firkalt of Goldfurt, the same reason why he does it anyways,” Justyna explained. “It's half the fun."

"Oh no, it's all the fun," Janina contested immediately. Geralt watched with bewilderment as a small debate broke out between the three of the oldest siblings, with Józefa standing on the sidelines.

Geralt retreated back to the guards and horses, who just shook their heads. "They're like infants," Borys complained and they all nodded in agreement.

"So," Marin said and nudged Geralt with his elbow, "I heard I missed quite a fight. Tell us about it."

He rolled his eyes and began recounting what had happened. As brief as humanly possible, much to the protests of his listeners. Luckily for him, Borys needed no prompting to fill the gaps with his own imagination.

Beside them the argument grew even louder—they were talking about something entirely different now. It was strange seeing all of the siblings together. All of them were very loud, with Józefa as the only exception. While only Jaskier and Justyna seemed to be truly noisy, Janina was no less obnoxious. All of them were very direct too, always demanding, always ordering, always judging. Their ugliest insults were wrapped in the prettiest comments. It made them no less obvious, though—on the contrary.

Józefa was very quiet in comparison. And kind. She always smiled, was always courteous and gentle. She was the softness of all the Pankratz siblings, the silk and silver and flowers with none of the secrecy, the edge, the poison. Geralt could see why Ciri liked her so much.

"Done!" Janina declared and shook hands with Justyna. Geralt raised his brows but said nothing.

Borys leaned in closer to Geralt. "Five crowns says it's about who can annoy her husband more."

Marin laughed loudly and clapped him on the shoulder. "Don't fall for that, Geralt, you'll lose. I--"

But whatever he wanted to say next was interrupted by Miss Nina. "Your ladyship," she huffed angrily, dragging Daria with her, "I think some harsh words are in order."

"Daria," Justyna chided once she saw the dirty dress. "What have you done?"

"Fiona and I were just playing."

"And what will your father say when he sees you like this?"

He didn't miss how she froze at the mention of Lord Kerton, quickly followed by an unintelligible mumble. Geralt cocked his head. 'Curious.'

"And Fiona?" Jaskier asked, not unkindly. "Where is she?"

"She's with Titan," Daria mumbled meekly. Sure enough, there was a dirty child standing next to the gelding.

'Poor Daria,' he thought as he got up with a sigh, 'she probably thinks she's betraying her friend.' He raised his voice and called over to Jaskier: "I'll take care of it."

"Thank you," Jaskier answered in a normal volume.

The guards all stared at him in confusion. He just shrugged. "Witcher hearing. Need to talk to Fiona."

"Right," Marin announced and got up, too. "Gentlemen, we should see to it that this party gets underway again."

Geralt nodded his thanks for the distraction. He was sure Ciri would appreciate it, too. He approached Ciri from behind, careful to walk noisily. As much as he'd loved to startle her, she took to that worse than a horse. "You need a bath," he noted when he was still a few feet away.

"Geralt!" She turned to him with bright laughing eyes. He could see her fighting the urge to hug him. 'Not in public,' was what they had decreed.

"You had fun, cublet?"

"I did!" She bounced on her feet excitedly. "We were looking for Fir Cone Sprites."

"Hmm, did you find any?" Geralt smirked and glanced at the deciduous woodlands around them.

"No, we didn't."

"Couldn't fathom why," he jested and mussed up her hair. It was windswept already; he didn't add too much damage. Only belatedly he realised he should be telling her Fir Cone Sprites didn't exist. But he couldn't bring himself to be so cruel as to dull a child's creativity. He couldn't bear Ciri turning into the empty hull Jaskier was so often now.

"Geralt, will you help me look for some?"

He snorted. "Absolutely not. I know what you're doing, you menace. Quit stalling and tell me why you are here."

She gnawed on her lower lip. "Miss Nina is really angry. I feel sorry for it, I was the one who told Daria about the Fir Cone Sprites. And now Lady Justyna is chiding her for it."

"Hm. And you got off with a warning."

"No." She cast one quick look at him and a blush crept up her cheeks. "She told me to go speak to Jaskier. And explain why I dirtied the dress he gifted me."

"And did you?"

She shook her head.

"You should go to him. It will only get worse if you wait."

She didn't answer.

He crouched down to be at her level. "You told me. What's the difference?"

She frowned and for a moment Geralt's heart beat faster. Of course, there was a difference. There was no reason to think there wasn't. But the words were out there already, so he had to roll with it: "You know he likes fun. He did all kinds of crazy things when he was young," he tried to reassure her. 'He still does. We're in the middle of one.'

"I'm not scared he'll be angry," Ciri admitted finally. "I'm scared he'll be disappointed."

Geralt heaved a heavy sigh. He knew that feeling well enough. "I know he won't. Even if he is, it will only be to keep up the facade."

Her voice was scarcely more than a breath when she answered: "I don't even want him to _pretend_ to be."

He sighed. "Would it help if I went with you?"

"Maybe?" She gifted him a quivering smile.

He stood up and took not-Roach II by the reins. "Come on, then."

She didn't move. "I wish I could ride," she sighed.

"I bet you do," he answered with a laugh. 'Not least to get away from Miss Nina.' "But you're a lady, madam, so the carriage it is."

She stared at him with large puppy dog eyes. Gods be damned, now he knew how Eskel had worked his charm on Vesemir. He hated it, too. "Can't we swap?"

He huffed a breath and messed up her hair. "Not today, cublet. Now quit stalling."

Side by side they walked over to where Jaskier, Janina and Marin were waiting with their horses. The others had walked back to the carriage already as all were getting ready to leave.

Jaskier and Janina were dressed quite similarly, he discovered, both of them equally ridiculous. Lady Janina was dressed no less frivolously than her brother, wearing a bright green cloak and black dress beneath with red gemstones. It was part of a joke he didn't understand, no doubt. 

Jaskier was petting Pegasus lost in thought when Geralt cleared his throat. Despite Geralt's initial doubts, Jaskier was quite good with Pegasus, as he demonstrated since their departure. They all turned to them. Jaskier gasped. "Great _gods_ have mercy, cublet! What _happened_ to you?"

She looked at her feet sheepishly. "Daria and I went looking for Fir Cone Sprites."

"Fir Cone Sprites," Jaskier huffed angrily as if that was the most audacious thing he had heard in years. "Did you find any, at least?"

"No." After a short pause she added: "I'm sorry I dirtied the dress."

"No, no, none of that, dear child. It truly is outrageous that you have found not a single one. Geralt, I believe you must teach them to track."

Janina clicked her tongue in disapproval. "Julian, do you really think that's what you should be worried about right now?"

"Oh, absolutely. Not found a single Fir Cone Sprite, can you believe that, Janka?"

Marin snickered. 

"Julek!" Janina scolded. Jaskier shot her a pleading look. "No, I can't believe it either," she gave in. "Truly, child, you should chastise your teacher for his failings."

"Oh, maybe we should teach her. What do you say, Janina? Get Justyna in the boat and we'll have a search party."

She sighed. "Fine."

Jaskier turned to Ciri with a triumphant smile on his face. It didn't take long for the cublet to reciprocate. "Better get back to the carriage and tell Daria and Julek about it."

"I'll take her," Geralt offered and took Ciri by the hand as she was skipping along. "Now, that went better than expected."

She nodded excitedly. "It did." Suddenly, she grew serious. "Do you think we'll be able to eat together again? I miss you during the mealtimes."

"Hmm," Geralt answered. "We'll see." He missed her, too, if he was honest. But Jaskier had excused him from the table and he knew enough about nobles that such a dismissal was synonymous with a sacking.

Still, guilt gnawed at him. He felt responsible for her and he cared about her greatly—so much it often terrified him.

She was his child surprise, and while that might be like having a daughter of his own, it didn't mean she had to see him as a parental figure too, he had to keep reminding himself. No matter how much Vesemir was the closest he or any of his brothers had to a parent, it probably wouldn't be the same for Ciri. The Princess had had a true family, much longer than either he, or Eskel, or Lambert could claim to. It was also why he had hesitated so long to fetch her.

She'd had parents, at first, and a grandmother and a grandfather later. Her life came with all the comforts money, fear, and power could buy. She was sheltered, warm, and loved. What had a witcher to offer her besides shivering nights next to campfires and hate directed to a mutant devoid of any emotion? That was no life and he had nothing else to spare.

But it wasn't so much his neglect of the affection he felt he owed her; more so her straying along others that had kept her from his side. Not that he could fault her for it.

"Geralt!" Marin called to him. He sighed. He knew it was high time for them to continue their journey.

When he looked back at her, she stared at him with wide eyes. "Geralt," she whispered, "do you love him?"

"I—what?" he spluttered. "No! No. I do not."

"Then why did he kiss you?" She frowned. "My grandmother and grandfather used to kiss each other a lot and it was because they loved each other. And I know some people need to pretend to be in love because they married. Like Jaskier and Lady Alina. But you and Marin are not, right?"

"No, we aren't." Normally he had no problem keeping his emotions in check, but he could feel a blush creep up his cheeks. 

"Geralt!" Jaskier called now, too.

"I'll explain it to you, but not right now," he promised and pulled himself into the saddle. "Go back to the carriage." He watched until his child surprise vanished inside, then guided not-Roach II back to the head of the column.

Geralt quickly caught up to Marin who looked at him bemusedly. "What’s got you so flustered?"

"Now it's _definitely_ no more kissing in public," he hissed. After that first embarrassing escapade at the breakfast table, he had been quite adamant about setting some boundaries. Not staying the night was one of them, and if Geralt hadn't been convinced on the no-kissing policy earlier, he was now.

"Sure." Marin shrugged. "Why?"

"Because Fiona saw you and asked why. I am not ready for _that_ conversation," he mumbled, still deeply embarrassed. He vividly remembered Vesemir giving Eskel and him a very similar talk, unbeknownst to the poor man that they had already found out what their dicks were for. That time he hadn't had to do the talking, at least.

Marin blinked at him for a few moments. Then he broke out in bellowing laughter, doubling over in his saddle wheezing. It even extracted a chuckle from Geralt.

A quiet huff came from in front of them. "Are you quite done, yet?" Jaskier asked, annoyed.

"Yes, my lord," Marin answered, struggling to stifle his laughter. The only answer Jaskier dignified that with was kicking Pegasus into a trot.

The rest of their journey they passed in relative silence, only interrupted by the occasional peal of laughter by either Marin and Geralt or the carriage.

Only when the city walls appeared on the horizon, did Jaskier break the quiet. Pegasus fell in step next to not-Roach. "You should go and ride forth to greet your husband," he hissed, too quiet for any human to hear.

She gave a heavy sigh. "Oh really?" The sarcasm was enough that Geralt could feel her eye roll. "You don't say. You see, I'm not exactly eager to get back here."

"I know. But do you have to flaunt it like this?"

"Yes. Yes, I absolutely do. This is my home. Back off, Julian." 

Grumbling, the Viscount brought a bit more distance between him and his sister. Surprisingly, he didn't utter a single complaint after that; not when he swooped his cloak over his shoulder, brandishing the ceremonial sword; not when the city guard made a move to stop them before seeing Janina and bowing deeply;not when the gates finally opened for them. And certainly _not_ when they entered the narrow streets of Goldfurt.

With the first hoofbeat on cobblestone Geralt tensed up immediately. For the first time in his entire life he longed to wear his sword at his side instead of his back. Gripping its hilt would definitely add to his menacing scowl.

He hated cities. The fact that they were headed straight towards the castle didn't make it any better. He suppressed an irritated growl, wishing he had taken Ciri up on her earlier offer to trade places. 

Geralt disliked towns for a lot of reasons. They were loud and stinky, and altogether they irritated his senses a lot. And they were prejudiced. Maybe not in the way the countryside was, but in rural areas he was at least a necessary annoyance. In cities he was just that: an annoyance. But most of all, he felt out of place. He felt even more out of place riding at the front of a procession that paraded the Viscount de Lettenhove around for everyone to see.

Marin moved his horse a bit closer to him. "Relax," he hissed, "they're not staring at you, they're staring at him. He needs to show off his new station and status."

Geralt growled darkly. He had a suspicion that by station and status what he really meant was 'currently unmarried and up for grabs'. The thought sat uncomfortably with him.

"You don't like it."

"Not one bloody bit," he spat out.

"It'll be over soon. Keep your head up high until then and keep glowering, then nobody will touch him for sure."

So Geralt did. He glowered at everyone in sight. At the liveried servants and velvet-clothed merchants, at silk-clad maidens and lace-shrouded widows. But most of all he glowered at Jaskier himself. As if that could make the blank expression on his face go away.

In the end, it did, but only to darken to a terrifying scowl when they found the courtyard of Goldfurt Castle deserted. He could practically feel the temperature drop as the expression on the Pankratz siblings' faces grew icy.

"I can't believe you wanted to come back here," Jaskier whispered to Janina, too quiet for anyone but her and Geralt to hear.

"I didn't," she replied just as quietly, "and now I remember why." She took a shuddering breath and sat up straighter in her saddle. "Well," she said louder, "it is good to be home. Is no-one present who might assist their lady in her homecoming?"

As if through magic a gaggle of servants manifested on the far end of the courtyard. They hurried over to hold their reins and offer them stepladders to dismount gracefully, and held the carriage door open as well. Justyna stepped out, and surely the others as well, but Geralt paid them no mind.

Even as he untied his satchel from the saddle, his gaze was transfixed firmly on Jaskier and the strained expression on his face. 'Please,' his mind begged, although he did not know for what. ' _Please._ '

Ciri was helped out of the carriage, too, looking rather lost before hurrying to Jaskier's side. Geralt wished once more he could trade places with her, only that he could soothe his child surprise.

'And Jaskier,' his mind supplied unhelpfully. The Viscount was fidgeting again, and there was a slight tremor to his feet. Geralt knew that to be particularly worrying. It meant that Jaskier was either about to fill his senses with alcohol, fuck his energy away, or punch someone. 'Or he could break down.' He couldn't even decide which was the worst option.

The last was the most gut-wrenching, though. It didn't happen often, but often enough for him to notice a pattern. Restlessness was common enough for Jaskier, but combined with anxiety it almost always ended badly. Jaskier would then do his best and try to get the energy out of his body, and from there, there were only two ways to go: either he wouldn't succeed and at one point his mind would burst with all the excess thoughts to come streaking down his cheeks in the form of tears.

Or, he would succeed, and that was even worse. Sometimes nothing happened after that, but most of the time what Geralt called 'The Numbness' followed. A couple of hours, days, or weeks Jaskier would be completely empty, the gaze in his eyes hollow and unfocused, while his empty interior seemed to fill up with every sensation around them. On those days he seemed almost as perceptive as a witcher, his mind reacting to the quietest of sounds. Much less focused and refined, of course. But then the worst part came, and that was when Jaskier's mind was finally filled to the brim. Geralt could always tell when that happened, for Jaskier's smile died on his face and the stink of vinegar, misery, and something else that smelled like candle wax he could never put a name to, wafted off him in horrible waves.

Most other people didn't notice, of course. To them the bard seemed just as cheery as always. Geralt did, though. He would then try to gently pry Jaskier away from the crowd, to get him somewhere private and do for him whatever Jaskier allowed him to. It was never much. But eventually they would both fall asleep only to wake in the night to the sound of Jaskier's quiet sobs. Geralt would pretend he wasn't listening and Jaskier would pretend he wasn't aware.

Jaskier snorted and muttered something unintelligible under his breath. Janina took his hand and squeezed it once; it was a strangely intimate gesture for the warring siblings. "Come." She let go again and gathered her skirts to climb the grand staircase that led to the main entrance. "Time to greet my beloved husband."

Geralt didn't know much about the pomp and panoply of the wealthy, but even he noticed that Goldfurt was significantly more luxurious than Lettenhove. Where Jaskier's home was a keep at best, this was a palace with all the opulence that demanded. Janina had definitely married above her station.

Somehow, it was her who fit the least into that excess. She didn't wear shimmering silks and satins like Jaskier, or a multitude of petticoats like Józefa. And he definitely couldn't imagine her with glittering bejewelled hands like Justyna. In comparison to them she dressed almost modestly.

Still, the air of self-importance with which she carried herself left no doubt as to who was in charge. "No," she ordered the servants sharply when they wanted to get the door for her. She shouldered past them and threw the gullwing doors herself.

Three men sat at a table in Goldfurt's Great Hall, although one was hardly more than a boy. "Filip," Janina said icily and they all froze. "Lord Damian. Dominik. I see you're enjoying yourselves."

The man at the top end sighed and stood up. "Janina," Filip Firkalt of Goldfurt greeted his wife, "we did not expect you so soon."

"Then our guards are slow and lazy. You should replace them."

His lips quirked to the tiniest of polite smiles. "Of course." His eyes passed to the rest of the party. "I see you have brought the rest of our family. Julian Pankratz!" He spread his arms to pull him into a brotherly hug. "What a surprise, Lord Lettenhove. Honestly, I thought I'd seen the last of you after you got abducted by a witcher."

"I'm sorry to disappoint.,” Jaskier said with a light voice. "Alas, Lettenhove won't pass to my sisters after all."

"I see you're still the snot-nosed brat that got sent off to Oxenfurt.”

"Not quite, my lord. If nothing else, I did learn to use a handkerchief in the past twenty years."

The joke coaxed a laugh from the other man. He rose to his feet and the boy was quick to follow. "And honed your silver tongue, I see," Lord Kerton said. "As sharp as any dagger."

"Good brother! I've been dying to see you again." This time Jaskier did spread his arms for his approaching brother-in-law and hugged him.

"Julian. It's been quite a while. Have you met Dominik yet, my son and heir?"

"I have not." He nodded sharply. "My lord."

"Uncle." The boy's voice cracked as he bowed obediently. "I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Lord Lettenhove."

"As am I. I apologise for my prolonged absence from your life." He gifted his brother-in-law and icy smile. "Justyna's told me so much about Kerton, I'm sure we have a lot to talk about. After your joyous reunion, of course."

"Joyous indeed," Kerton muttered and slouched off to greet his wife. Daria and Julek bowed stiffly before their father and elder brother. There was no warmth on Justyna's face and even Daria's ever-present grin vanished as soon as she noticed her mother's rigid expression. Geralt hated it.

Before a snarl could disfigure his face, a disgusted sneer caught his attention: "What is _that_?" Goldfurt demanded to know, pointing at Geralt and his dripping satchel.

Jaskier didn't hesitate to jump to his rescue: "Not what, Goldfurt, _who_." He said curtly and beckoned him closer. "His name is Geralt of Rivia, and he would like to be paid."

Geralt felt quite self-conscious at that. "Jaskier, we're guests," he hissed. He didn't know much about courtly etiquette but he was sure as hell that this was considered impolite.

"I do not see how that keeps them from giving you your rightful due. I think I know more about my family's inexhaustible wealth than you do," he quipped for everyone to hear. Turning to Lord Goldfurt he continued: "Thanks to him your woods are safe again."

The Count was visibly unimpressed. "We were unaware they were ever in peril."

"Well, now you know." Janina cut in, much to Geralt's surprise. "You should thank him appropriately, my lord."

He barked a laugh. "Don't be ridiculous, woman, he's a witcher! I'm surprised you let him set foot in the city at all."

"He's my brother's guest who saved my life today. If you value it, you should show your gratitude."

The expression on Goldfurt's face made clear he didn't value it at all. Still, he said: "Very well. I'll take it up with my chancellor."

Geralt closed his eyes, thanking the gods that this farce was finally over. Too soon, unfortunately. "Is that him, Julian?" Lord Kerton demanded to know. "Your _white wolf_?"

"He is," Jaskier agreed with a bright smile, seemingly oblivious to their insult as he wrapped an arm around Geralt's shoulders. "My lords, may I present: the witcher, Geralt of Rivia, the white wolf and my very best friend in the whole wide world."

The words, once uttered so carelessly, made Geralt's gut churn now. 'It's all an act with nobles,' he reminded himself. And right now, he himself was nothing more than a strategically placed pawn.

"Friend, huh?" Goldfurt laughed and the others joined in, too. "Well, I suppose it's true. They do call dogs man's best friend after all."

Geralt looked at Jaskier pleadingly. Normally, they'd leave at this point. With some people there was just no convincing them. They were far too lost in their bigotry.

But of course, they couldn't leave. This wasn't a random noble, this was Jaskier's family and they were their guests. They would have no other choice than to suffer through banquet and ball before they could mercifully leave.

“I do not appreciate that sort of joke,” Jaskier said, his right hand flexing nervously, while his left gripped the hilt of his sword tightly. “Geralt is my witcher. He's my friend, my sword, and shield, so I advise you to _watch your mouth_." 

"Careful, Pankratz," Goldfurt said bemusedly. "Are you really willing to break my castle peace for a mutant?"

"Yes."

'Fuck.' He knew what would happen next. Next, he would have to drag a kicking and screaming bard out of town, followed by guards with halberds and peasants with pitchforks because the idiot punched another noble in the face.

He put his hand on his shoulder. It was all he could do to keep from grasping his flexing hand tightly. "My lord," he said quietly. " _Jaskier_ —" That got his attention finally. He could deal with the reprimand later on. "It's been quite a day, don't you think? I'm sure your sisters and the children will be glad to retire to their chambers."

"You're right," Jaskier said hollowly. "Lord Goldfurt, I trust that you have quarters to offer for a band of weary travellers such as we are?"

"Of course we do, darling," Janina stated flatly and gestured for a servant to come over. "Lead my siblings to their chambers."

Geralt breathed a sigh of relief as they all slowly turned around to be led to their quarters—all except for Janina, whose husband had wrapped a tight arm around her waist and tried to kiss her despite her averting her face. At that moment, he almost felt pity for her.

They had made it almost to the door, when Goldfurt raised his voice again: "Oi, Pankratz! What about your pet? A rug in front of the fireplace will do, I reckon?"

Geralt wanted to keep on walking, but Jaskier whipped around before he had even time to process the words fully. "No, it won't," Jaskier answered, each word ripping through the tension like lightning. 

"What is it, Goldfurt? You flaunt your wealth for anyone to see, yet you are too stingy to provide my guest with a room for himself?"

"Don't be ridiculous.” The Count laughed, apparently oblivious to the unbridled fury he faced. “He's a witcher, his previous hosts were drowners and cockroaches, he'll be fi—"

"—And I shared them with him, so trust me when I say I'd prefer their company to yours at any time." 

The Hall was quiet enough to hear a pinprick fall. Jaskier raised his head and squared his shoulders, every inch of him emanating that arrogant air of self-importance all of his peers shared.

"A room, Goldfurt,” he commanded. “That's all I ask."

With that he turned around and Geralt followed him. The rest of their party were visibly shaken, which meant that Jaskier had seriously trespassed on some unwritten rule. He didn't care. He knew Count Goldfurt was lucky the verbal slap in the face was all he got.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo, some of you might have noticed that I set the chapter count to 20. Does that mean the entirety of the story will be resolved in the next two chapters? Fuck, no! But, given that this just keeps expanding and expanding, I've decided to divide this project up into several fics for readability. I'm sure you will appreciate having a few shorter fics instead of the 250k words monster this is turning into.
> 
> Oh, and before I forget: since the last update an amazing artist illustrated [the closing scene of Chapter 11](https://chiosblog.tumblr.com/post/634335237206327296/a-scene-from-chapter-11-of-the-amazing-fanfic-of#_=_), please go shower them with love!
> 
> I'll be back in a few weeks with Chapter 18 - Golden Gowns and Eventful Evenings in which we'll get to *drumroll* attend a banquet!
> 
> As always, let me know what you think in the comments or on [tumblr](https://dhwty-writes.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> EDIT: The chapter count is now up to 21, because there is now an appendix.


	19. Dramatis Personae

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All the important characters appearing in this fic. Spoilers through Chapter 18.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has been brought to my attention that it's getting a bit difficult to keep all the characters apart, and you're completely right! There are far more than I ever anticipated. I hope this clears things up a bit.

JULIAN “JASKIER” ALFRED PANKRATZ, The Viscount de Lettenhove

His family:

  * [ALFRED PANKRATZ, The Viscount de Lettenhove, his father who died earlier that year]
  * [DARIA PANKRATZ, The Viscountess de Lettenhove, his mother, who died twenty-four years ago]
  * His sisters 
    * JANINA "STOKROTKA" FIRKALT, The Countess of Goldfurt, the oldest of the five Pankratz siblings, who blames all witchers for her mother's death  

      * Her husband, FILIP FIRKALT, The Count of Goldfurt
    * Baroness JUSTYNA “KONWALIA” OF KERTON, who was called the “terror of Lettenhove” with Jaskier in her youth 
      * Her husband, Baron DAMIAN OF KERTON
      * Their children, DOMINIK, DARIA, and JULIAN “JULEK” OF KERTON
      * Miss NINA, their nettlesome nursemaid
    * Miss JOLANTA "KONICZYNA" PANKRATZ, away in Novigrad, where she apparently seduced a rich merchant
    * Miss JÓZEFA "PRYMULKA" PANKRATZ, the youngest of the five siblings, tried to seduce Geralt in the beginning and is now on good terms with him
  * His distant cousin, Miss FIONA NOWAK, in truth Princess CIRILLA FIONA ELEN RIANNON in disguise
  * [JULIAN PANKRATZ, The Viscount de Lettenhove, his grandfather, presumably Marin's father]
  * [ALBERT PANKRATZ, the first Viscount de Lettenhove and Jaskier's great-great-great-grandfather, who slew the heir of a former Lord Dergetten]



His household:

  * JAKUB WÓJCIK, his manservant, secretary and informant for everything of note that goes on within the walls of Lettenhove
  * MARTA, a servant in Lettenhove
  * WIKTOR, his stablemaster, who is very picky when it comes to letting people ride the horses 
    * PEGASUS, Jaskier's horse, a white gelding, called NOT-NOT-ROACH by Geralt
    * TITAN, Lord Alfred's former horse, called NOT-ROACH II by Geralt
    * DANCER, Janina's horse, called NOT-ROACH by Geralt
    * DREAMER, Józefa's horse
  * WERA, the local healer
  * ANA, his head cook and Marin’s mother
  * MARIN, his Captain of the Guard
  * BORYS, a member of the household guard
  * GERALT OF RIVIA, a witcher, who was once Jaskier’s friend and is now sworn to his service



Other people of note:

  * ALEKSANDER MILAS, The Count of Hangfelt; Jaskier’s liege 
    * His son, ALEKSANDER MILAS ‘THE YOUNGER’, Viscount Retton, who Hangfelt wishes to marry to Fiona
    * His step-sister, Lady ALINA MILAS, Jaskier’s fiancée
    * His half-brother, ROMAN MILAS
  * Baron DANIEL OF DERGETTEN, whose family has a long-standing rivalry with the Pankratzes
  * YENNEFER OF VENGERBERG, a powerful sorceress



**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If there's anyone I've forgotten or any additional information you'd like to see, don't hesitate to ask (believe me, I'll most likely have an answer)

**Author's Note:**

> I want to thank both [PersonyPepper](https://persony-pepper.tumblr.com/), who began this with me, and [Spiffingtea](https://spiffingtea.tumblr.com/) ([AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spiffingtea/pseuds/spiffingtea)), who took over, for betaing this fic. Go check out their AO3, their fics are amazing!


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